Jago & Litefoot - The Scarab of Necromanta
by alexjolie
Summary: More AU/Spin-off than pure Doctor Who - the premise came from an old (lost) issue of the Doctor Who Magazine. The lead characters are daughter and son respectively of characters in the classic serial "The Talons of Weng-Chiang".


_Temple of the Scarab, Persia 1198 AD_

In the Persian desert, a temple sat, watched over by a sphinx carved from what appeared to be a huge, single piece of white stone, both partially buried with sand. Yet it was far from deserted. A low moaning echoed through the dimly lit stone edifice gaining both in volume and rhythm. Outside, several figures moved with a slight clanking of metal and chainmail. The commander raised a chainmail gloved hand to halt his knights as a deep rumble emanated outwards from the temple.

"What was that?" He ushered his troop forward and headed into the building. As they head deeper into the structure, the chanting grew louder and faster and more discordant yet it seemed to come from all directions unnerving even the staunch knight commander. One of his junior knights became violently ill, ejecting the contents of his stomach down the front of his dusty tabard before collapsing, "Brother Banis, see to Brother Eldred." The knight commander hissed, "Brothers Avilan, Edmund, Tanis – come. We shall stop this heretical abomination now!"

"Yes Veteran Brother Hakael." Banis moved to his fallen battle brother as the remaining four headed towards the chanting and the central chamber. As they approached, the pounding of blood in their ears increased until suddenly, the chanting stopped and the supernatural pressure on their beings ceased. Hakael waved the others to cover so as better to observe proceedings.

Hakael looked over a parapet into what appeared to be an altar room – a heretical, blasphemous corruption of an altar room, but the religious symbology unmistakable. Instead of a Holy Cross, on the wall behind the golden-coloured altar there was a gold-coloured bas-relief of a scarab beetle. The dozen worshippers were garbed in monk-like habits of brown cloth; their leader, wearing a stylised pair of beetle antenna on his head, held a green gem-like sphere in supplication before the scarab statue. The altar itself, intricately carved with hieroglyphs, is huge, measuring some ten feet in length, three feet in height and the same in width, with two circular sections at either end. One of these – towards the head of the figure – appears to be a hinge for doors that slide apart around a pivot point under the circular section, forming the lid into a "V" shape. From within the altar, a subdued and hazy white glow bathed the litter bearing the wizened figure of a man dressed in the same rough, brown cloth habit. Around the altar on the floor, someone had inscribed an intricate circle festooned with symbols and devices of an occult nature and surrounded this with several browning tallow candles. Hakael took a sharp intake of breath, "Heretics!" he hissed.

The beetle priest incanted a brief oration and the chanting restarted. He positioned the gemstone in line with a receptacle recessed into the altar as the chanting reached a crescendo. Suddenly a deathly silence dropped as the priest incanted words in a foreign tongue.

Tanis looked to his Commander, "I believe he said, '_I become yours; we become yours; you become us_'. The dialect is strange, ancient. The meaning may be – different."

An insipid green haze wavered from the green gem as a faint white light tinted with a slight orange-red glow emits arose from an amber gem – twin to the green one and the litter began to sink into the altar as the lid segments hissed close, apparently to seal the figure within the altar.

Sickened by the sight of the heresy of False Idol worship and now fearing that the heretics are summoning a Beast From Beyond by sacrifice, Hakael and the others entered the chamber brandishing their swords to bring the Judgement of the Almighty to the unbelievers. After a short but bloody battle, the scarab worshippers lay dead, their blood mingling with the dusty sand and the altar remained slightly open, the sphere of jade dislodged in the struggle and now absent. The knights knelt before their hilt-upwards swords as Hakael led them in a brief prayer of thanks. However, their reflection was cut short as their brothers-in-cause Banis and Eldred entered ahead of a group carrying a large wooden chest.

"Master de Salem," Hakael and his other battle brothers bowed their heads in supplication, "you honour us with your presence." Hakael took his commander's proffered hand as he stood, "You have new orders for us?"

De Salem lowered his cowl and ushered the knight commander to rise; "Ah Hakael, as victors we claim the spoils to swell our campaign coffers." His men placed the chest on the altar in front of the scarab statue, sweeping aside the few candles still upright.

"But my lord, these are unholy relics." Hakael swept the room with a gauntlet, "Who knows with what evil they are tainted? Who can say what evils may befall those who try to bear them?"

De Salem smiled coolly, "Why Hakael, do you doubt your Master's piety?" his eyes narrowed and his tone became far colder, "_You_ dare believe that _my_ faith is so weak so as to allow my corruption by False Idols?" de Salem's eyes flashed with anger, "I say it is _you_ who has been corrupted by temptation." He jabbed a finger at Hakael as the others looked on in utter bewilderment at this baseless accusation, "As Master of this Company, it is my duty to relieve you and your men of your arms and place you under arrest for trial." De Salem turned to one of his men, "Wylam take them back to camp – under guard." He looked to his men, "Atherton, fetch the others to carry the spoils."

Once the dishonoured Templar knights were removed, de Salem turned to face the statue, "Now," he looked around to ensure he was alone before removing a strange, gloss black, wand-like device from his tunic belt. "If I am right…" his thumb moved a switch on the side of the device, there was a low whistling hum, "God be praised. It works, the magics work." He swept the device around the chamber listening for a change in pitch of the keening sound. "The scrolls were right." He looked to the wand in wonder and awe, "this _can_ track better than a wolfhound…" A change in tone and pitch occurred as he moved the device over the body. What de Salem sought lay under the corpse. Angrily he kicked what he thought to be the corpse of the sacrificial victim aside eliciting a low moan from the man. De Salem bent to retrieve the spherical gem from under the writhing figure. Almost instinctively, de Salem looked at the gold altar straight into a recess perfectly suited to receive the jewel. He moved it to the receptacle and the jewel began to vibrate ever so slightly as it glowed from within. With a nervousness not felt since he was a young acolyte many summers ago, he slid the jewel into the slot.

There was a low flash of green light from within the gem, de Salem leant over the open altar and let the white light wash over him. His aches eased, and the odd twinges that came with being of advanced years reduced. Then he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. De Salem looked down to see the wizened figure appears to have similarly regained some vigour of youth and had plunged a small blade into his side, but there was little blood. In a swift motion, de Salem drew a short sword from a scabbard beneath his travelling cloak and drove it into the chest of his would-be killer before withdrawing it and decapitated the oddly rejuvenated older man. Still bathed in the altar's white light, de Salem looked to where the heretic's blade had fallen from his side. There was neither scar nor blemish to his flesh. "By divine right; the Light of Life eternal…" de Salem, stunned by the turn of events, quickly removed the gem from the statue as his men returned. "Take this altar, arrange for transport back to England and the Temple Church in London."

Soon the chest containing the altar was loaded onto a camel-drawn wagon to which Hakael and his men were chained. There was a low moan; a keening sound on the wind, whipping the gritty sand in small eddies. Rapidly rising into a fully-fledged sandstorm, the small column was engulfed. As the winds and sands blew about, there was a low-pitched, deep, rumbling sepulchral laughter. Before long, the desert had mostly reclaimed the temple and sphinx. An exceptionally keen observer may have sworn the beautiful face now had an almost callous and vindictive upturn to her smile.

Sometime later, from one of the slight mounds of sand, rumble rolled and grains began to avalanche down before the mound exploded as a gauntlet punched the surface.

1. Mistaken Delivery 

_The Palace Theatre, Limehouse 1891_

Henry Gordon Jago clamped a cigar between his teeth as he studied the parcel just delivered with the morning post. Inside the small box, instead of the costume jewellery he was expecting, wrapped in several sheets of brown paper was a piece of crystal jade the size of a cricket ball but ten times as heavy. "Curiouser and curiouser," he turned the jewel in his hand, the silver and gold threads within glinted in the light from the electric lamp on his desk, until he spied a blemish – a tiny, ruby-lined hieroglyph engraving of a scarab beetle maybe three-quarters of an inch square on the otherwise unmarked and highly polished surface, "most peculiar," he flicked the ash from his cigar. "Wonder who sent it?"

"Ooh, that is one pretty jewel father." Jago looked up straight into the sparkling brown eyes of his daughter Henrietta who has just entered his office. "Is it a gift for mother?"

"Don't know m'dear. It came with the morning post instead of that necklace from Wooster's…"

"Mister Jago!" A skinny Irish boy came running up and walked straight into the room through the still open door. Henri turned the newspaper over and read the headline; "Scottish Ceasefire now in Tenth Month."

"Marty," Jago massaged his brow over his nose, "how many times do I have to tell you to _knock_ before entering unbidden? Miss Lola has never been the same since." Marty flushed at that as Henri tried not to acknowledge to what her father alluded. Jago sighed deeply. "What do you want Marty?"

"Mister Jago; there's two gen'lemens looking fer you. They say they from polis."

"What would the police want with you father?" Henri looked to her father, her right eyebrow raised as if to say 'now what have you done?'

"Great Caesar's Ghost, no idea m'dear," Jago took a deep breath, and placed a hand on his daughter's shoulder, "Look, I'm your father, I'm supposed to… blessed if I know, offer some thought of authority." His eyes darkened momentarily, "Just be careful; promise me?" Henri nodded and he regained his usual bluster, "Now cut along and meet y' mother. Marty show them in." Marty left and Henri kissed her father's cheek before heading for the door. "Make sure y' mother doesn't spend _all me_ money on frocks and hats again!"

Henri turned, "I will father. I will make sure mother doesn't spend quite _all_ your money," she smiled with a twinkle in her eyes, "But some of mother's dresses are a whole _three_ months old!" Father and daughter shared a laugh at the joke.

Jago waited until the door is closed behind his beloved daughter before he slipped the jade into a desk drawer, locking it and secreting the key into his waistcoat. "Maybe…"

Scant seconds later, Marty returned with two men in plain clothes. "Mister Jago?"

Jago stood and offered his hand, "Henry Gordon Jago at your service; the boy said you are policemen?"

Without taking Jago's hand, the apparently senior officer reached into an inner pocket, "Of a kind sir, of a kind; my warrant card," He showed Jago a rectangle of card bearing the Brunswick star and seal of the Metropolitan Police but of a slightly odd design. It took a moment for Jago to register that, in place of the crown at the top there is what appeared to be a winged snake under a smaller crown. Instead of the name of the bearer, it appeared to be a code name with only rank and surname.

"Sergeant Grey, what can I do to aid the fine lads in Division Q?" Jago bade them to sit. "Wherever that is?"

"We deal with thefts and misappropriations of antiquities." Grey pocketed the card. "We have reason to believe that an item stolen from the Persepolis Museum in Persia may have been delivered here by accident." Grey spoke with carefully chosen words. "We had hoped to track down the intended recipient but their agent in Paris chose to commit suicide," Grey's colleague sneered at this, "after secreting the item in a sizeable consignment of packages from Wooster's Costumer Suppliers. Most of these have been accounted for, but the item was not recovered. Your name was on the consignment list."

"You thought y'd come see if I had it?"

"Very good Mister Jago, you catch on quickly." Grey smiled without warmth or humour, "Now have you received anything from Wooster's?"

"I am _expecting_ a pair of deliveries from that fine establishment," Jago flicked more ash from his cigar, "but as of yet," he shrugged, "nothing has been delivered."

Grey's associate narrowed his eyes at this and glared at Jago. "Look Jago, we know you have a delivery from Wooster. The Delivery Office said the Postman had already left on his rounds. The box was not _there_, the postman has already been here, ergo: he must have delivered it. Where is it?" He slammed his fist into the desk causing a framed photograph of Henri to topple.

"That is enough Bryson!" Grey lost his refined composure for a moment before turning back to face Jago who had bent to retrieve the errant frame, "_Mister_ Jago, we trust you are a patriotic Englishman who would neither shirk nor shy away from his duty. The Persians are rather anxious to get this item back. Should you receive something you are not expecting," he withdrew a card from his inner pocket, "Get in touch immediately."

Jago took the proffered card, "I will. May I inquiry as to the nature of this 'item' you seek?" He drew on his cigar, "Just so I know what to look for y' see."

"According to a Miss Khorsandi of the Persian embassy, it is a piece of jade crystal slightly less than three inches in diameter," Grey opened his palm to indicate an approximate size, "about the size of a large cricket ball. Quite valuable apparently and of 'great cultural importance' as these things usually are." Grey smiled again, this time with a hint of humour, though Jago had a feeling that this attempt at levity is merely an act. "Quite why if it is so valuable it was left in a warehouse in a simple wooden box…" Grey shook his head and regained his professional persona. "Her Majesty's Government and Foreign Office would be grateful for any and all assistance you could give in this endeavour."

Jago remained impassive, "You will be the first to know should a jade cricket ball come into my everso humble possession." He nodded his head in a slight bow.

"That's the ticket Mister Jago. Capital." Grey clapped his hands and stood to leave with Bryson following suit. "You can reach my officers on that number. I anticipate your call." Without further word, the two men left. Jago watched them walk down the corridor and out of the theatre.

Jago studied the card for a moment before unlocking the drawer and withdrawing the jade. "Wonder what George would make of this?" He pondered for a few more moment before placing the jewel and card in his hidden safe. He scribbled a short note and placed that in an envelope addressed to 'Henri', leaving that with the jewel and Grey's card in his safe before snatching up a hat and heading out of the door.

Jago reached the street and hailed a taxi. '_Its one of those new-fangled steam ones_,' Jago thought, '_Looks straight from a print in a tale of Dick Turpin_'he sniffs, '_if not for the lack of horses and the steam boiler bolted to the rear._' The driver pulled on levers to direct the smaller front wheels of a carriage towards the pavement the rubber tyres far quieter on the cobbles than the iron-shod wheels of other versions.

"Wooster's on St. Albaron?"

"Sure guv, 'op in." The driver reached back and down to released the door allowing Jago ingress to the cab. "Off we go…" The driver released the brake and the carriage lurched forwards hissing and puffing.

Jago looked out the window into the fog, thick and cloying, tubercular, yellow cloud that sat heavy over the city, a remnant of the heavy rain the previous day '_a shroud over the populace and a haven for the creeping things of the world_'. There was only an impression of tall grandiose buildings loomed out of the smog, or the occasional vehicle flitting by on the road, its passengers hidden behind darkened windows or wreaths of smoky fog. Gas lamps flickered in the damp air, a network of disembodied haloes lining the edges of the streets.

Despite the comfort of the seating, Jago suppressed a shiver at the direction his thoughts were going. It was mid-morning and it seemed as though the day itself would never come, replaced instead by the remarkable twilight that appeared to have descended over the city. Jago surmised that this Peasouper would make police work doubly hard – and would prevent him being followed by Grey and Bryson – giving criminal types all the cover they would need to carry out nefarious deeds.

With a banshee squeal the steam-cab slowed to a stop, shaking Jago from his reverie. "Okay, 'ere y' is. That'll be two-an'-six." Jago handed over the requisite coins and stepped down from the carriage, half-stumbling down the foot-and-a-half high drop.

Wooster's Costumiers loomed out of the gossamer mist, the building, with softened edges, appeared somehow insubstantial, otherworldly and dreamlike. Yet here he was. Jago patted his pockets for a fresh cigar, but suddenly remembered he had left the box in his desk. Frustrated he opened the door and his gaze fell on Wooster's secretary; a young woman, pretty, brunette, in her early twenties with a dainty but full figure. "Ah Miss Wormwood gorgeous as ever m' dear," he beamed and opened his arms in greeting. "Is Wooster in?"

With little warmth Miss Wormwood looked up, "Good morning Mister Jago." She sniffed, "What have I said about such physical affections?" She stood, "Mister Wooster _is_ in his office. I shall see if he is available to see you." She turned towards the door leading into the rest of the office development and, as she opened the door, spoke over her shoulder, "_If _you take a seat. I shall return – presently."

Jago sat down and looked out of the windows; the fog looked as though it is slowly starting to dissipate. In an attempt to alleviate his earlier mood, he started half-humming and half-singing a song Henri had recently taken to performing. "_Many a king on a first-class throne… …if he wants to call his crown his own… …must manage somehow to get through… …more dirty work than I do… For I am a pirate king…_" He lowered his voice slightly, "_His is, hoorah for the pirate king!_" He paused for a moment before he started singing again, slightly louder than he intended, "_And it is, it is a glorious thing To Be a Pirate King!_" A clap of applause cut short the impromptu recital.

"I've always known you to be a pirate me old mate what with the way _you_ pay y' bills," the new arrival interrupted, "but never in my wildest dreams would I think hear such a confession from them lips."

"Blood 'n' Thunder!" Jago leapt to his feet, "How dare you sir? Why I'm no pirate. The only pirate here is you with your prices!" Jago tried to stifle a laugh and failed. "Bertie, it's good to see you." He moved to his friend. "It's been too long."

"So what brings you here?" Wooster smiled as he led Jago through the door into the warehouse and toward his office, "Other than terrorising Miss Wormwood of course. Is Mrs Samuelson unhappy with my offerings?"

"Mrs Samuelson is in fine fettle and vocal as ever, always complaining about the quality." Once in the office, Jago regaled Wooster with the visit of Grey and Bryson, purposefully omitting the detail of receipt of the scarab. "That's about it Bertie, these chaps – not quite the full shilling, if y' see what I mean – seem to think _we_ two might be mixed up in a theft caper."

Wooster tapped his desk with a pen, "Funny you mention that; we had a break-in couple of days ago."

Jago looked about, "Really? Was much taken?"

"That's the odd thing. Y'see near-as-damn-it, all we can determine missing is a parcel addressed to you – not the contents, just the wrapping. Y'see we label up the boxes before putting the stuff in and sealing for posting, makes it easier for the boys to keep on top of it and stop wrong contents going to wrong address. Your box was ready for filling, but Monday night, someone got in here, opened up the box, tipped out your necklaces – got 'em here, might as well take 'em now." He paused, and retrieved a brown-paper parcel tied with cotton string seemingly identical to the one Jago received that morning, "no refund for postage though – deduct from next order?" Jago conceded, "Anyway, looks like that resealed the original and took it with 'em." Wooster sniffed, "Really most peculiar. Admittedly, all here is glass 'n' paste but there is the petty cash. No attempt to do anything else. Once I told the police, they couldn't wait to get to you."

"Yet these 'police' _knew_, or claimed to know, this – thing – from Persia was here…"

Wooster opened another drawer, "Well I did have a contact – Wragg – in Persepolis looking for cheap trinkets. Made some vague references about coming into possession of something various parties were interested in." He pulled out a telegram, and passed it over to Jago, "Sounds to resemble what your police were looking for."

Jago scan-read the telegram, "So you think Wragg sent you this jade?"

"That's just it," Wooster took the paper back from Jago and returned it to the drawer, "Not heard from the chap or his associate Kramer in a month and just assumed they'd had a better offer." He pulled out another piece of paper, this one a clipping from _The Times_ foreign pages, that he handed it to Jago. "This was published in the stop press, four weeks after I heard from him – a week ago."

The 'article' was just thirteen words: "Persian Death. Correspondent reports death of Julien Gonville Wragg late of Reading, Berks."

"The next day there was a slightly longer article; Wragg had been tortured and 'hacked about the body' before he was decapitated." Wooster shuddered violently, "Made me feel quite ill. But nothing else came of the matter. Told the police I was an associate for Wragg's 'fore _they_ made the connection, but…" he offered a slight shrug, "The police said Wragg had been killed by robbers, and that his associates in Persepolis had disappeared. It had been assumed that they had been using his export company as a cover to move stolen contraband out of Persia. The police seemed t' think these associates…"

Jago leant forward, "Had done Wragg in t' cover their nefarious activities?"

Wooster nodded. "Since several items were absent from inventory it seemed the most logical conclusion."

Jago sat back, "So it seems, somehow, this – _thing_ – came from Persia, found its way into a box from you that it just so happens is addressed to me and now several parties seem to want it?"

Wooster pondered the coincidences for a moment, "Sounds rather like a story from that Conan Doyle chap."

"Never found the fascination meself," Despite his intentions, Jago found his curiosity piqued, "Why not deposit the 'thing' in amidst the rest of a shipment? Why entrust it to the postal system?"

Wooster shrugged, "For that matter, why entrust it to you or me? But there is one less oddity," he thought a moment as a memory resurfaced, "Wragg had your address to send that necklace for Eloise directly to you."

"Quite, it certainly explains one aspect." Jago stood and shook Wooster's hand, "Well best be off. Better see if anything arrives."

"Well, love to Eloise and Henrietta. Sure those," Wooster indicated the box Jago held, "will look _fantastic_ around Henrietta's neck."

Jago shook the box slightly, and swelled with fatherly pride at the compliment paid to his flesh-and-blood, ignorant of the gleam in Wooster's eye. "She always does." Jago left the office and warehouse unaware that Wooster followed him moments later and headed in another direction.

2. Mistress of the Art of Death

_Bloomsbury_

Henrietta and Eloise Jago stepped out of the steam carriage, the sunlight finally burning off the cloying fog. Eloise was knocked back by a sudden, powerful gust of wind and clung to her bonnet to ensure it was not lost in the draught. She looked up, "Damned airships!" Adjusting her hat to counter it being dislodged during her attempt at retention, Eloise smiled, "I wish they wouldn't fly them so low over the city."

Henri laughed with a light tinkle as she followed her mother's gaze. The underbelly of an immense vessel was scudding overhead, scintillating in the reflected light of the city and temporarily blotting out the sun, casting the two women in a dark shadow. The atmotic craft companies had been enjoying a period of rapid growth in recent months – buoyed, no doubt, by their performances during the conflict against the Scottish terrorists. Demand for air travel was almost exceeding their capacity to build larger craft and an increasing number of people found profitable business abroad. With the haulage companies taking to the skies too, there was no longer any need to relocate to foreign climes on a permanent basis and many businessmen had taken the opportunity to set up subsidiary companies in India, Canada, the West Indies, Australia and America. Henri had never travelled on one of the vessels, though she had had the opportunity to look over one of the smaller cargo vessels on one of the companies Open Days, but she was certainly enamoured by them, and watched in wonder as it drifted lazily overhead, _en route_, she suspected, to a berthing field south of the city. There had been a time she watched them enviously, wondering as to the occupants and what they might be engaged upon and wishing to be aboard, then came the realisation that most were probably simply going about business, doing what they did on a regular basis and probably themselves wishing to be elsewhere.

Eloise shuddered. "Beastly things, it'd take more tea than there is in China to get me into one of those blessed things." Henri suppressed a smile – her mother often made such a statement about tea and often settled for far, far less, but this time it was said with some feeling. "If the Almighty had intended us to fly, He would have given us lifting envelopes." Henri flushed as an overheard remark from her father to her mother about her décolletage arose unbidden.

Henri looked around swiftly trying to repress the memory of Mrs Jago's giggles when her gaze fell and came upon a poster heralding:

Curse of the Scarab

Miss Eleanor Connelly

Presents

Artefacts of Khemosiri

Marvel! Wonder! Excite!

March Meeting Rooms, Bloomsbury

12 October, Noon

Admission 6d

Henri nudged her mother, "Ooo that sounds interesting mummy. March… that's only three streets away and it's a quarter before noon now. What say we go and have a look see?"

Eloise looked pained, "Must we? You know how I dislike these anachronistic exhibits."

"That's '_archaeological_' mummy," Henri smiled, "You are always saying I should find other interests out of the theatre. History is something that has always fascinated me and…"

"Henrietta Charlotte Jago! I am not your father." Eloise scolded, "You can not wrap me around your finger so easily. I say about 'interests' so you find a husband. I mean," she waved a hand towards her daughter, "you are a handsome woman, but you are over twenty _and_ unmarried. Do you not want a husband and children?"

Henri heard the argument her mother has made several times before, "Yes and yes, but I want a husband who shares my interests, someone I can converse with and love, not some _dullard_ who would rather me stay at home popping sprogs out as often as humanly possibly. I… I want more from life that that."

"Wherever did you learn 'popping sprogs'?" Eloise was shocked, and regarded her daughter with steel-grey eyes. "M' gal, you're spending far too much time with the ruffians an' lower-types at that theatre." Eloise looked at her daughter knowing it was an argument she would not win. "Well daughter-of-mine, you had better not leave it too much longer." After a pause more to verify no further comment on the topic, the older Jago woman adjusted her bonnet once more and looped her arm through her daughter's, "So off to Meeting Rooms then?" Henri nodded with relief, "Besides, you might attract the eye of some gentleman there…"

"Mother, behave yourself!" Henri blushed.

Eloise smiled, "Yes dear." And with that the two women headed along the street. "You know something; it seems so… different not to see police patrols and soldiers every few hundred yards."

Henri nodded, "Yes mother, it is – liberating – in a way." Henri's mind drifted back to a time a year ago, during the War of Scottish Sedition as it was now being called, when she had been stepping out with a chap by the name of Bevin; they had travelled by underground train to Greenwich to see the new omniscope there. It had been quite a shock to emerge from the tube station to see soldiers manning a machine-gun nest and policemen _sitting_ on a suspect. The ceasefire had meant a gradual and continual reduction in troops and police on the streets, there were still the occasional pairs of policemen and even more occasional policewomen on patrol but certainly more on the streets than there were a few years ago before the Scottish Uprising – for which no cause had ever been established. Even so, the small numbers of officers seemed ineffectual if someone was determined to detonate explosives as they had done in Birmingham. Henri found herself thinking that if someone was set on a course of action to maim and kill innocents and perhaps even themselves, then would seeing someone in a uniform of authority really make them reconsider? The leader of the Seditionists was even on record as saying it was their _duty_ to take as many with them to Hell as possible if it freed Scotland. With such a mindset, how could they be reasoned with? How could any dialogue be entered into? Henri suppressed a shudder as she realised her mother had been speaking.

"Well?"

"Sorry mummy, I was miles away."

Eloise frowned, "I was saying that your father would dismiss this spiritualism as," she puffed her chest in emulation of her husband, "Mere 'mumbo mixed healthily with a dollop of jumbo'," she breathed out with a strong sense of relief. "I admit from reports it does seem a bit far-fetched, like one of those scientific romances that are all the rage, but there must be _something_ in it. You know me; I have never been overly religious. Nevertheless, there _has_ to be something more to life than this existence…" she trailed off as though somewhat embarrassed by what she is saying, "It sounds like some fiction, or am I being taken over by fairy tales?"

Henri looked at her mother with worried eyes. She had never heard her talk like this, nor sound so unsure and vulnerable. "I wish I could give an answer mummy but I can not. There are reports of shaydes and apparitions being evidence of some form of afterlife…" Henri paused, "As the Bard said '_there are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy_'," Henri smiled in an attempt to lighten the mood and nudged her mother gently, "Perhaps he knew of what he spoke."

"Perhaps," Eloise smiled weakly, "and wasn't it '_your_ philosophy Orlando'?"

"What's the use of a good quotation if you can not alter it to fit the circumstances?"

Eloise laughed with her daughter, "Very true. How much further are these meeting rooms?"

"Not far. We should be there in minutes."

"And you know that how?" Eloise asked disapprovingly. "It was more a rhetorical question."

"I… I have attended talks there before." Henri looked to her mother for some reaction only to be greeted by the slight eyebrow raise and shake of the head that her mother had for whenever Henri or her father did something to incur her displeasure but at which she was secretly pleased.

_Limehouse_

Jago alighted from the cab and headed for the surgery of his good friend and fellow "Combatant against the Unknown" Professor George Litefoot. There was a blast of an air horn and a steam 'mini-car' rocketed past. These were bizarre, single-person carriages barrelling along at great speed, bowling everyone and everything over in their wake. Smaller than the hansom from which he had disembarked, but larger than a bicycle it was a squat, fat, little thing on four steel-rimmed wooden wheels, into which the driver had lowered himself, leaving his head and shoulders exposed to the elements. The pear-shaped body had a fat rear-end that housed a small furnace and water tank. The 'pod' into which the driver would lower himself contained, in addition to the fabric webbing harness, the series of panels, steering rods and pulleys by which they would operate the steering and power mechanisms. "I really must get meself one of those," Jago muttered to himself, "Save a blessed fortune in cab fares!"

Professor Litefoot was a well-known local character. A member of a wealthy upper-class family, he could, if he wished, have had a fashionable practice in Harley Street. But after a spell in the Army, he had deliberately chosen to come and work at a hospital in London's East End and had since opened a small general practice offering medical aid to the poorest of the poor. Here he could do real and useful work, instead of, as he put it himself, 'dosing a lot of silly women suffering from the vapours'.

Worse still in the eyes of some, he had taken the post of police pathologist, deliberately involving himself in the crime so common in the area. His aristocratic relations had long ago given up trying to make him see reason. Litefoot went his own way, and he always would. Yet he was one of the few men Jago could call 'friend', in the two years since they had encountered Weng-Chiang and with everything they had witnessed together since they were comrades-in-arms. Jago surmised that if anyone could aid, it would be Litefoot.

He strode into Litefoot's waiting room to find the place deserted bar Litefoot's nurse and oftentimes secretary Sister Elisabeth O'Connor of the Blessed Order of the Bleeding Heart – always struck Jago as a bit of an odd name even for a Hospitalier order. Elisabeth had been raised in an orphanage in Ireland. From brief snippets of conversation with her, she believed – or perhaps falsely hoped – her parents were running from some horror when they abandoned her. In the orphanage, Elisabeth was always the toughest of the lot, protecting the smaller children from bullies – both male and female. Eventually, her crusading nature brought her into conflict with an abusive nun. She was expelled for a time, but the local bishop had been watching this young "Joan of Arc", as he called her, and took her under his wing. In Dublin she combined her fists with faith and truly found God, and her calling as a medical practioner. Feeling constrained by European ideals, she travelled to India a decade ago to work in the Delhi hospital. It was here, after some 'incident' of which she refused to speak that she came to the attentions of then-Doctor Litefoot who asked her to become his nurse. All this had been gleaned more from Litefoot than Sister Elisabeth herself, something about her intimidated Jago.

Sister O'Connor always came across as quite arrogant, yet a devout Catholic – indeed more than once she had preached to Jago about her faith and had originally tried to convert him. Now they are mutual acquaintances, though she knew nothing of the two men's work together.

"Good morning Sister," The nun turned around, and once again Jago was struck by how ugly the scars picked up during her orphanage years were, otherwise she could be quite pretty. "Is the Professor in?"

"Mistah Yay-go," The horseshoe-shaped scar cutting her cheek and lips gave her a permanent sneer and there was a slight harshness to her North Irish lilt. "Professor Litefoot is in conference wit' a woman," Jago moved to sit down. "He said to send y' through if y' turned up."

"Much obliged." Jago bowed his head in a slight nod and moved towards Litefoot's consultation room. He rapped twice on the door before opening. "George! My dear fellow," Jago strode across to Litefoot who made to stand. He grasped his friend's hand to shake it vigorously. "It has been too long."

"Henry," Litefoot returned the handshake, "It has barely been a week." He laughed slightly and indicated the woman sitting in front of his desk, "May I introduce Miss Anousheh Khorsandi."

Jago took the hand of the exotic woman and kissed the warm and soft back of it gently, "Charmed m' dear, charmed." He found himself oddly captivated by her face; unlined golden skin and deep perceptive emerald/brown eyes so like his daughter's framed by curled auburn brown hair with a pert, slightly upturned nose giving her an aristocratic look. "Mortified as I am to interrupt, Sister O'Connor said for me-"

As the two men sat, Litefoot nodded, "To come straight through. Yes I gave her the request." He looked to his visitor, "If I may?" She nodded once, "Thank you. Miss Khorsandi's has a case that might be of interest to us and having read of our exploits," he flushed slightly at the thought of actually being famous for being a humanitarian, "sought me out. I was about to suggest we adjourn to your theatre but…"

Jago nodded, "Serendipitously here I am?"

"Quite." Litefoot smiled, "Now Miss Khorsandi, if you will…"

"Hold a moment," Something registered in Jago's mind, "Is that 'Khorsandi' as in 'a Miss Khorsandi of the Persian embassy' looking for some trinket or other?"

Miss Khorsandi smiled from one side of her mouth, her cover in tatters. "My, you are well informed." She spoke perfect, precise English as though a native. "I should be honoured you know of me."

"I have already received a visit from men masquerading as police who bought your name up during the course of questioning me."

Khorsandi sighed, "Did they go by 'Grey' and 'Bryson'?"

"Yes."

"It is as I feared. The reason for my visit is as the police told you Mister Jago. An artefact of immense significance was stolen from the Persepolis museum. From a locked vault where the more esoteric finds are kept. If it were to fall into the wrong hands it could spell doom for many people." She sighed again, "My department would do anything to retrieve it."

"So why come to us?"

Khorsandi raised an eyebrow quizzically, "Because my dear doctor, my government does not know of the existence of the artefact. They _can not_ know. Although many centuries old, it is believed to be not-of-this-Earth and that would cause – problems. I read your story '_Weng-Chiang's Talons_' I believe it was called and saw past the fiction of giant rats to the truisms; time travel, life on other planets et cetera-"

"Sorry but the rats were real too." Jago looked into the middle distance, "Ten feet whisker-to-tail if they were an inch, most perplexing."

Khorsandi looked troubled, "Really?" Both men nodded.

"Cost a Chinaman his life and a friend of ours the use of his legs." Jago jabbed a finger toward his friend, "And that poltroon at _The Strand_ said no one would believe your tales!"

"He seemed to prefer 'straight' crime tales, apparently the readers consider police procedural tales more of an appeal or something." He shrugged, "But what of what we did? Surely they are just investigatory tales albeit it with a vein of scientific romance laced through?" Litefoot breathed out resignedly, "Anyway Miss Khorsandi, you were saying?"

"I read your tale, well your account, and believe that you are in a position to help."

"May I ask, why us?" Litefoot indicated himself and Jago, "We are but two men, getting a bit old perhaps."

"Speak f' y'self," Jago preened, "I feel fitter than ever!" He tried to bluster.

"Be that as it may," His friend's assertion did little to convince him, "Why not ask the police for assistance?"

"As I said, my government knows nothing of this artefact, and your government _can_ know nothing of this. I do not believe that _any_ government should. Besides why should your police help me? Not only am I a woman, but also foreign; my skin forever 'marking me as not quite British' and I have documents implicating one of England's many industrialists as an agent in this affair yet…"

"Without official sanction you are powerless?"

Khorsandi nodded with thinly veiled relief at this understanding, "Yes. I did approach the police and was directed to an Inspector Hobson. He took down the particulars but I later found out he was an agent for the very man behind the murder of Wragg; Sir Charles Havelock."

"Havelock? That cove has been a recluse these past eight months. No one has seen hide or hair of the man." Jago leans forward, "What of Wragg? You said you had 'documentation'?"

"Men from the department I am with were watching the Persepolis premises of one Julien Wragg, believed to be involved in smuggling artefacts out of my country. Shortly after the theft of the artefact I am chasing along with several other relatively minor pieces, we raided his building. We found his – what was left of him nailed upside down to a wall," She shuddered and blanched, "He had been flayed before decapitation." She paused to collect herself. "We found your name Mister Jago along with that of a Wooster in his records so I came on the first atmotic craft to England; though quite why my superiors thought a single woman asking questions would arouse less suspicion than a man is beyond me."

Jago scratched his head, "Perhaps they thought we'd respond better t' a pretty face?" He smiled disarmingly.

"Perhaps Mister Jago, Mister Wooster would neither confirm nor deny associating with the deceased, but he did confirm a shipment to you."

"Very gentlemanly," Jago spoke with great irony, "I assume Bertie told you that Wragg had sent parcels directly to me rather than routing them to him as well?"

"Yes."

"And you expect me to relinquish whatever Wragg sent to you?"

"Not exactly, no." Khorsandi took a breath, "Originally gentlemen that was the plan, the hope. But since it is almost certain this Havelock now knows you have possession of the artefact your life will be forfeit; they have killed before and they will kill again."

Litefoot paled, "But _what_ is this 'artefact'?"

"A ball of jade, inlaid with fine silver and gold wire, engraved with an Egyptian-style beetle hieroglyph illuminated in ruby thread."

Jago sniffed. "Sounds an expensive trinket, m' dear but hardly worth killing for."

"It is what it _does_ rather than what it _is_ that makes it priceless. We have strong reason to believe that it is…" she took a deep breath, "…the controlling mechanism for a device that can cheat death." The Persian looked to the two men expecting dismissal or ridicule at the fantastic story.

"Dear God," Litefoot's eyes widened, "Are you serious?"

Khorsandi tilted her head to one side, "What could I _possibly _gain from misleading you, alone or together, in such a way?" She reached into her handbag and pulled out a small leather-covered journal with differing lengths of cloth marking several pages. It is to one of these she turned and began to read out sections of the tightly written and cross-referenced text. "Some one thousand, one hundred and thirty years or so before the birth of the Christ child, a pale-faced man appeared in the court of then-ruler Horemshep heralded by sounds of 'the air being torn asunder and the grinding growl of immense beasts'. This man, calling himself Mortimus, according to the records dressed in 'heavy brown sackcloth robes' akin to the habit of a monk in your terms, and had the ability to stem 'the onset of death about his person'. Yet in his fortieth summer Horemshep was assaulted and knocked from his war chariot being dragged many miles before the bolting horses could be stopped. This Mortimus could not stem the accession of Horemshep beyond this life and was put to death." She turned several pages to another entry. "But this Mortimus had his followers amongst the people led by his acolyte, they developed a cult around him and his 'magics' dedicated to the scarab that was his symbol, at least as scribed on this ball of power. There are references to an altar of 'carved gold with the light of life within' and this jade ball – called 'scarab' due to the etched design, as being instrumental to the healing process of this apparatus without need for something referred to by Mortimus as 'full bodily regeneration'. It seems," she flipped through to an earlier entry in the journal, "that the altar and ball were the only artefacts to survive the purge of the scarab cult years later but were lost to the sands of time."

Khorsandi paused as she leafed through the book again, "And you think this artefact Havelock is after," Litefoot paused in his note-taking, "is the same 'ball' this Mortimus used two millennia ago?"

"The descriptions throughout history match. Ah here it is," She began to read again, "Down throughout the centuries other fragments of text have been uncovered and seven centuries ago, both altar and scarab-ball where known to be in the same location before it was sacked by crusading knights. Then three years ago from today an expedition financed by Sir Charles Havelock recovered an altar, golden and carved, from the desert near a white sphinx but of the scarab-ball there was no sign according to reports."

"Reports compiled by agents of your department within his expedition?"

Khorsandi's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, "Yes. It is surprising how little attention local labourers garner when Europeans think them as little more than slaves. In a way it is fortunate the mechanisms of the clockwork servants are easily clogged by sand," she laughed at her own joke and the two men found themselves smiling along. "But to the business at hand; the altar vanished from the world within days and has yet to be recovered. It is believed that Sir Charles to have been torn apart for the gold and metals within. Then Lord Henry de Salem, a direct descendent of the knight commander of that region at the time of the temple sacking arrives with an expedition to fully excavate the site. Now coincidences are one thing, but this seems too convenient to be such a happenstance."

"Quite agree m' dear." Jago leant back. "You said that '_originally_' your plan was for me to relinquish this artefact – this 'ball'. Why?"

"Such an act could be subject to observation and we could follow Havelock's minions as they attend to their master's bidding. It could have given an opportunity to gain intelligence into the less public side of Sir Charles's businesses and ascertain how he can obtain so many of my country's antiquities with seemingly little effort."

"So what has changed?"

Khorsandi cleared her throat and looked slightly embarrassed. "_If_ and I stress _if_,Havelock is in possession of the Mortimus altar he only requires the scarab-ball to activate its healing powers."

Jago blinked, "And that would be a problem?"

"Yes. For you see, if this is right," Khorsandi patted the now-closed journal, "Havelock would become nigh-on immortal. Whenever anything starts to ail him, all he does is lie in the altar for a while and allow its properties to rebuild his body."

_Bloomsbury_

Henri and Eloise Jago climbed the few steps up to the foyer of the March Meeting Rooms to purchase tickets before being directed to one of the rooms; in the corridor outside of which, there was a small throng of people, mostly women, though there are one or two men in the gathering, milling around expectantly. Eloise recognised one of the men, "Mister Madsen!" She called out and headed towards the man in a steam-powered wheelchair, his eyes hidden by dark-lensed glasses, "Mister Madsen, it is you." She turned to Henri, "Henri I would like you to meet one of your father's friends, Mister William Madsen." She leant in to whisper into her daughter's ear, "He's something with the police don't y' know?"

Henri offered her hand which Madsen lightly kissed. "I would offer to stand but…" he trailed off as his gestured to the contraption in which he is confined. "Your father speaks highly of you but does your beauty little justice."

Henri blushed slightly as her mother gave her a subtle nudge, smiling expectantly, "So Mister Madsen, what brings you here?"

"Merely an interested amateur; I read the reports Miss Connelly filed from the de Salem expedition and when I saw this talk advertised," he shrugs in his seat, "I had to come along. Well the lads can survive wi'out the guv'ner for a couple o' hours what with the ceasefire an' all." He tapped the armrest of his chair, and almost as though on cue the doors to the room opened, "Ah, here we are. You timed it well." Henri stepped back to allow Madsen to swing his wheelchair around, "Oh no, ladies first Miss Jago, ladies first."

Henri dropped in a slight curtsey, "Thank you sir." The three of them headed into the meeting room arranged with large panels covered in highly detailed drawings and annotated photographs to the fore and rows of seats facing forwards. The two women found seats whilst Madsen manoeuvred his chair to the side of the room.

Henri turned to her mother and whispered, "So how does father know Mister Madsen?"

Eloise looked troubled for a moment, before replying in a hushed tone, "I am not entirely certain _how _or _when_ they met, but I first knew of their friendship some two, three years ago. About the time your father started that tale about the giant rats actually," she pales, "gave me nightmares for weeks they did – biting through a man's legs – Mister Madsen's if your father is to be believed." She shuddered with revulsion even whilst obviously doubting her husband's words, "Then that Professor friend of his _published_ the fiction in _The Strand_ published, unbelievable! Much prefer the Holmes stories myself!"

"Quite agree." Eloise looked up guilty as Madsen leant against the row of seats, "Mind if I join you?" He waved to the vacant seats beside the pair, "It's a bit awkward moving too far without the chair even with the pneumatic-callipers." He indicated the metal and leather contraptions encasing his lower legs.

Henri could just discern her mother's mortification at being found talking about the man as she mumbled an apology, "Of course Mister Madsen please join us, I… I meant no disrespect to you only…"

"To father," Henri stated more than questioned.

Madsen smiled, "Do not trouble yourself, it was no slight on me and knowing _Mister_ Jago's ability to embellish any tale…" he laughed to break the tension "I would not be surprised if he held the rats plotted and planned their attacks via aid of a two-headed mutant albino with…" he suddenly became aware of the discomfiture of the two women. "Forgive me, I forgot myself."

Henri looked about the room slightly dismayed at the low turnout, the room perhaps a third full at most. "_How disheartening this could be._" she thought, "_Slow nights at the theatre get more people than this._" Then the door at the front opened admitting a slight woman of about the same age as Henri, dressed stylishly in a green skirt and jacket over a brown waistcoat and white blouse. As she busied herself adjusting the notes of a speech, she removed her hat, revealing straw-coloured hair in a tight bun. The woman cleared her throat and removed a pair of black rimmed glasses from her bag as a boy followed her through the door, closing it softly behind him and sat behind the front desk.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming," she spoke with a surprisingly commanding voice tinted with a Lancashire accent, "I had hoped for a larger audience but then what performer feels otherwise?" a faint murmur of laughter rippled through the audience. "Shall we begin?" This was answered by a general buzz of agreement. "I am Eleanor Connelly and this," she indicated the youth behind her, "is my hapless assistant Benjamin Andersson." Again there was a brief ripple of laughter.

Connelly tapped the cards on the lectern in front of her and proceedings swiftly became more formal. "As some of you may have read, the de Salem expedition to Persia bought back several pieces of antiquity that will go on display in the British Museum and Lord de Salem's collection once they have been properly catalogued and chronicled. The expedition was – as reported at the time – to uncover artefacts belonging to the Necromanta Cult, originated by a man once thought to be called Khemosiri, who believed they could stave off death. Amongst the finds was a rather unusual sarcophagus," Andersson used a long, straight, wooden pointer to indicate a watercolour rendition of the article in question; a painting, a beautiful reproduction of a wooden coffin inlaid with stones and gold leaf; the artist of which had made some attempt at the hieroglyphs carved into the sarcophagus but the perspective distorted the effect and any meanings were lost. "I apologise for the lack of fine detail, but much of this was painted from memory based on brief sketches made before Lord de Salem ordered the sarcophagus moved." Connelly referred to her notes, "Of interest – and something lost in the painting – is that at some time post embalming and internment in the sarcophagus, all markings on the torso and legs of the casket had been rendered illegible by means of red paint. Now some elements of the Persian find were strikingly similar to recent discoveries in Egypt; such as the layout of the tomb and the overall style of hieroglyphs, it was possible to date the tomb to around two thousand years ago." She shuffled the cards and looked back up at the audience, "Although originally believed to have been built as a tomb, certain architectural elements suggest some other function from this fungoid-shaped, hexagonal altar," Andersson indicated a sketch of a structure resembling a stone mushroom, partly deformed by age, "that had a crystal-like structure at its centre to the regular tessellation of circular roundels along two visible walls." Again Andersson indicated a sketch picture showing a section of regular arrangement of recessed circles set into the wall. "Now there were other doorways evidently leading from this chamber originally, but after investigation these were found to be false – opening onto solid rock."

Connelly took a sip of water. "Now the casket was found on a dais between our entry doors and this central altar." Andersson moved the stick over a plan sketch of the tomb's layout. "Once Lord de Salem knew of the discovery, the casket was withdrawn almost immediately for shipping back to England." Connelly cleared her throat, "Although Frank Lambourne had announced that he had discovered the whereabouts of the 'Altar of Necromanta' some three years ago it never emerged and it was believed to be a hoax. It was not until this discovery that we finally had proof definite of the cult, their temple and their founder. Whilst still lacking any record of their death-defying rituals it is hoped that the remains of their founder Khemosiri might give some indication as to their beliefs and offer a tantalising glimpse into life two millennia ago."

A mutter of discord and discomfort swept amongst the audience until one of the men shouted out, "What can a mere girl know of such things?"

Andersson swung around angrily, "How dare you speak to Miss Connelly thus?"

Connelly bridled at this as she calmed her assistant, "Who are you sir?"

The heckler stood, "Maybourne Ladd, a student of Egyptology." He bowed his head by way of greeting, "and I repeat my question, 'what can you know of such things'?"

"Well Mister Ladd, I know not _of _them, but I know _about _them and I am simply after the truth of things to further the understanding of what might be."

Ladd scoffed, "You _may_ excel at _fabricating_ hobgoblins _Miss_ Connelly as in your previous fairy-tale. But I _suggest_ you leave the real archaeology to those of us who actually get their – shovels dirty!"

"I _suggest_ you stick you your shovel right up your-"

"Benjamin!" Connelly turned sharply on her assistant.

"How can we take the uneducated ramblings of this _unmarried_ girl seriously?" Ladd turns looking for support from the audience but finds none.

Connelly leant on the lectern, "Can not a woman make her own way in this world," she laughed at the mere thought of what she is saying, "without the need for a husband?"

There is a groundswell of support from the predominantly female audience, one of the few men present muttered, "Don't give me wife ideas." Ladd continued to try and bluster but he had lost the argument and faced increasingly hostilities from those present.

"Mister Ladd," Connelly took a deep breath, "my enthusiasm wanes as you speak to me." She indicated the door, "If you feel so strongly about not listening to my 'ramblings' you are free to leave." There was a round of applause at this and Ladd snatched up his coat, hat, stick and gloves and stormed out. "Now we can hopefully continue without further interruption!" There was a further rumble of laughter.

"Where was I? Oh yes?" Connelly shuffled the cards now no longer distracted, "Archaeology is built on the principle that we are _all _the dust of some future's past. While society progresses there are oftentimes parts that are consigned to history of good or ill. Science, after being born before 500 AD and flourishing, soon became an ivory-tower intellectual thing which did not get shared, did little to improve the lives of the people, and was swallowed and scorned by superstition. Science died for a thousand years with the burning of the Library of Alexandria; it was as if mankind had undergone some self-inflicted brain surgery and most of its memories, discoveries, and passions were extinguished irrevocably. The loss was incalculable. In some cases, we know only the tantalising titles of the works that were destroyed. In most cases, we know neither the titles nor the authors. We _do_ know that of the 123 plays of Sophocles in the Library, only seven survived. One of those seven is _Oedipus Rex_. Similar numbers apply to the works of Aeschylus and Euripides. It is a little as if the only surviving works of a man named William Shakespeare were _Coriolanus_ and _A Winter's Tale_, but we had heard that he had written certain other plays, unknown to us but apparently prized in his time, works entitled _Hamlet, Macbeth, Julius Caesar, King Lear, Romeo And Juliet_ and _Love's Labour Won and Lost_. What humanity could have been like if the Library had flourished and the Dark Ages had never come?" She paused to allow this to sink in and she took a sip of water. "If we fail to learn, then everything this civilisation has built will be lost not to history since that implies record but simply lost, just like tears in the rain." Connelly again paused as some of the audience shifted uncomfortably.

"Hence, the de Salem Persian expedition was to unlock the secrets of a formerly unheard-of noble Khemosiri. There were some who ascribed his nobility to monarchy and others to some high religious office, and during the expedition, I myself subscribed to the former. Yet after we found his tomb, it was more obvious that this was not the case and Khemosiri held some religious office. At the entrance to the Tomb of Mortimus, as the structure was known, there was a cartouche upon which was inscribed a warning loosely translated as 'trust not the magics of Mortimus'. Thus it is possible Khemosiri was a devotee of Mortimus or vice versa. Without any records as to this 'Mortimus' it is possible that Khemosiri and Mortimus were one in the same being. Now it seems from other artefacts that I was able to sketch before the temple ceiling collapsed once more closing the chamber to the outside world," Andersson indicated a sequence of pencil-and-ink drawings, "The tomb of Mortimus was not as sacrosanct as first thought. Here, we found what appeared to be a fairly modern, albeit highly dusty gramophone record player." Andersson indicated somewhere else, "Here was a strange tablet with western letters arranged in seemingly random rows along with buttons bearing more cryptic markings and symbols attached to a black glass tablet." Andersson pointed to a third location on the plan view and a drawing of a six small squares of a pale material against the darker ground, some of which appear broken underfoot. "This is the most bizarre of all the finds, it appears to be a puzzle whereby the slices – if unbroken – built to form a cube, but there was nothing to hold the sides together." Connelly rearranged the cards once more, "Lord de Salem believed that there was more to the temple than we uncovered in the short time we were there – for one, why was Khemosiri or Mortimus entombed in a temple that bears his name? Why did this temple show signs of sacking before the sarcophagus had been interned? What exactly can Mortimus tell us about his life and subsequent death? Only by careful examination of his remains can we ascertain any answers."

Connelly talked for a further hour about the finds and details in the sketches, before taking a final sip of water, "That concludes my modest lecture ladies and gentleman." There was a round of applause, "Thank you for coming. Are there any questions?"

No one seemed to have any questions and the gathering disintegrated. Whilst her mother chatted with Mister Madsen, Henri took the opportunity to approach Connelly to discuss a matter with her, "Miss Connelly; that was a fascinating talk."

"Why thank you Miss…"

"Jago," the two women shock hands. "When do you suppose the remains will be examined?"

Connelly leant backwards, perched herself on the edge of the desk and took a slow, deep breath, "Lord de Salem is holding the unwrapping of the mummy tonight at his Mayfair home. Uncle wanted something a bit more scientific but Lord de Salem financed the expedition so has final say." She scoffed, "We will probably lose far more than we could learn just to give a few…" She shook her head. "I apologise. Bit of an annoyance I share with my uncle." She noticed Henri's smile. "Have I said something amusing?"

Henri shook her head vigorously, "Oh no! No, it is that it has always struck me as odd; such remains are called 'mummies', the process is 'mummification' but there is nothing to do with bearing of young or giving birth…"

Connelly nodded her comprehension, "Ah, I see. No the 'mum' is derived from the Medieval Latin _mumia_ itself 'borrowed' from the Persian _mūm_ for bitumen that, it was originally believed because of the blackened skin, was used in the preservation process. Even after the use of the bitumen had been dismissed, the term stuck."

"Thank you. That has often been a question of some debate."

The two women chatted for a brief while until Mrs Jago came over to collect Henri. "It was nice to talk to a kindred spirit. I will make certain to send you that book." Connelly held up a slip of paper. "Thank you once again for coming."

"What was _that_ about?"

"Ellie – Miss Connelly – has promised to send me a copy of her journal from the previous expedition." Henri's eyes gleamed, "It must be exciting to be involved in something like that."

3. The Unwrapping 

_Mayfair_

George Purefoy was running late. The young reporter hurtled down the street, notebook clutched tightly in one hand, hat clamped to his head with the other, dodging out of the way of the other pedestrians, who eyed him warily as he raced by like some crazed animal, pursued by an invisible pack of hounds. His sand-coloured hair stung his eyes where it whipped across his face in the driving wind. His dinner suit was crumpled and now, to top things off, it had started to rain. The biggest assignment of his career to date and things had already started to go terribly wrong.

Purefoy skipped around a red post box, narrowly missed colliding with an elderly gentleman in a top hat, and finally flung himself at speed around a bend in the road. There, in the distance, was Albion House, the home of Lord Christopher de Salem. The street outside the house was bathed in bright yellow light from the glare in the windows, and even from here, a good hundred feet away, the noise of the party spilled out to form a cacophony of chatter in the otherwise quiet London evening.

Catching his breath, he slowed his pace to a steady walk and attempted to regain his composure, smoothing his jacket and straightening his tie and hat. Rain pattered lightly on his face. Other guests were still arriving at the big house, and whilst he was most definitely late, to Purefoy, it did not like he had missed the main event. At least he hoped not: his career as a reporter depended on it.

Purefoy had made his way here, across town from the office, for the society event of the year, to cover the return of the explorer and philanthropist Lord Christopher de Salem from his expedition to Persia, and more, to attend the grand unveiling of his greatest find: the mummified remains of an ancient Persian priest. There had been a great deal of fanfare about the success of the expedition over the last few weeks, accompanied by wild claims from de Salem that the mummy was a unique specimen; found still wrapped in its finery. It was said to bear strange markings that were unfamiliar to any of the experts he had consulted at the British Museum. It was the talk of London, and tonight, de Salem planned to hold one of the in vogue unwrapping parties and remove the bindings of the long-dead king before a select audience of guests.

Much to the chagrin of his fellow reporters, Purefoy had been given the assignment to cover the event for _The Times_, following the success of his recent piece about the "Clarendon House Scandal" and the rather blatant government conspiracy to hide the fact. He had set off in plenty of time, of course, first picking out his best suit and selecting a brand new notebook from his pile. But then the ground train he was on had shuddered to a halt a few streets away, and word had spread throughout the carriages that a spooked horse had caused a cart to overturn, spilling its cargo of crates and pallets across the tracks up ahead. Again, he found his thoughts drifting to the predicted future where the horse was replaced by steam engine. How much more efficient, quieter and cleaner the city would be then – swift transport, no droppings to navigate, just clean coal-fuelled internal combustion driven vehicles. Knowing that his destination was within reach, and sure that waiting for the tracks to be cleared and for engineers to check the integrity of the tracks would cause him to miss the party, he had taken matters into his own hands and instead set out on foot. Now, uncomfortable, damp and late, he was starting to wonder whether the assignment itself was actually more of a curse than the blessing it had at first appeared to be.

Purefoy quickened his step and made his way along the street towards the party. Grand houses loomed over him from both sides of the wide street. This was a London as unfamiliar to him as the slums he usually found himself writing about. The people who lived in these enormous mansions moved in circles entirely outside of his experience, and he found himself feeling not a little nervous at the prospect of having to hold his own with a crowd of such gentlemen, lords and ladies. Nevertheless, he was certainly anxious to see what Lord de Salem had brought back with him from the Middle East, and more specifically to bear witness to the unrolling of the king himself.

He stopped at the bottom of the steps to let a lady in a billowing, cream-coloured dress – who had just stepped out of a private steam carriage – enter the party before him. She offered him a gracious smile as he stepped to one side to allow her to pass. He eyed the butler by the front door as the man checked the lady's invitation and showed her inside. Judging by the standard of the servants, Purefoy was starting to feel a little underdressed. He checked his suit again, conscious that he was more than a little crumpled and damp. Sighing, he patted his pockets and located the invitation card. Then, warily, he mounted the steps and presented the card to the older, balding man, who looked Purefoy up and down and raised an eyebrow before examining the card that he had been handed. There was a brief pause.

"Ah, yes _The Times_; will you come this way." It was as if the butler's entire demeanour had changed upon seeing the invitation. Purefoy gave him a quizzical look unable to tell whether the butler had revised his attitude because of his respect for the newspaper, or because, upon realising that Purefoy was a reporter, he had somehow lowered his expectations. Either way, he supposed it mattered not that much. He followed the butler in through the grand porch, impressively decorated with a series of stained-glass panels and Minton tiles, and stepped through the inner door that the butler held open for him on the other side. A moment later he was standing in the grand hallway, where the party was already in full swing.

Purefoy, still suffering from his exertions, gazed on in amazement. It was like nothing he had seen before in all of his life. An enormous staircase dominated the space, its sweeping banisters curving up to form a large gallery that looked down upon the bustling hall. Glass cabinets had been erected at regular intervals all around the tiled floor, filled with the most wondrous gilded treasures from the tomb of the mummified king. People milled around these cabinets, cooing appreciatively, drinks in hand; courting one another with sidelong glances and averted gazes. Purefoy almost laughed out loud. It was like every cliché he could have imagined, and more sumptuous and extravagant than even those. The women floated around in the most magnificent dresses of coloured silk, brandishing their drinks like weapons. The men looked austere in their formal attire, and clustered together in little groups, talking in hushed tones. "_This_," Purefoy thought, "_is all of London society, here together in one room._" He did not know whether to be giddy or appalled at the thought.

Feeling a little out of his depth, Purefoy cast around for anyone he recognised. There were faces he had seen in portraits and photographs, but no one it would be proper for him to approach at a party, at least not without a formal introduction, maybe not even then he surmised. Up on the gallery, he noted Lord de Salem himself was resting against the balustrade, surveying the scene below. He was sporting a wide grin. When he spotted Purefoy looking, he offered the reporter a little wave, and then pushed himself away from his perch and began making his way along the landing towards the stairs.

Purefoy had met Lord de Salem only once before, the prior week, when the peer had visited the offices of _The Times_ to discuss an exclusive on the story with the editor. He seemed like a gregarious sort of chap, with a welcoming manner, but Purefoy was not so naïve as to miss the fact that the only reason de Salem was making a beeline towards him through the party was because his inflated ego compelled him to entertain the reporter who would be providing a write-up of his event for the morning edition. "_Who knows,_"Purefoy's internal monologue started again, "_maybe there could be a position on his next expedition if this goes well… after all how many here could trace their lineage back to the twelfth century and earlier, and what would the patronage of such a gentleman be worth – editorship of _The Times _perhaps?_"He smiled and held out his hand as the lord approached him, the other guests turning to see whom their host had decided to grace with his presence.

"Purefoy; a pleasure, are you enjoying the party?" Lord de Salem was a tall, stocky man with broad shoulders, a long, greying beard and a receding hairline. He carried his weight around his jowls and his waist, and his voice was friendly but with an overbearing boom.

Purefoy smiled, his face still burned from the run. "Alas, my Lord, I've only this moment arrived. An accident in the road meant I had to finish my journey on foot. I trust I have not missed the main event?"

De Salem patted Purefoy easily on the shoulder. "Not at all, my good man, not at all. It's been two thousand years since the Persian was confined to his bandages. I would venture to say there is no imperative to rush, wouldn't you? Now, let's get you a drink…" Chuckling, de Salem gestured towards the row of statues situated along the back wall, to either side of the huge staircase. Purefoy watched, fascinated, as one of the statues stepped down from its perch, collected a tray of drinks from a nearby table and made its way jerkily towards them. Purefoy had assumed the statues were part of the display, items brought back from the expedition by de Salem and his team. The one coming towards them looked every bit the part: a flawless, life-size replica of an Ancient Persian statue, replete with carved head and blank, staring eyes.

De Salem laughed when he saw the young reporter's expression. "Dear boy, haven't you seen one of these new Villiers automaton devices?" Purefoy shook his head. "Why, they're all the rage; much better than those terrible things Oberman presented last year, even if he is a damned Frenchy. No, these truly are wondrous machines. Look here." He waved at the device as it came closer, and Purefoy stood agape as de Salem took a flute of champagne from the proffered tray. "Brass framework of unsightly cogs and things underneath, but a porcelain veneer over the top, designed to order. I had these ones made up in the style of the twelfth dynasty. Remarkable, aren't they? Just like living statues. At one time, these would have been heretical and signs of witchcraft." He paused and gazed into the middle distance as though he were remembering something or some long-forgotten half-guilt. "Now they are practically part of the furniture!" de Salem laughed at his own joke.

Purefoy smiled and accepted the glass of champagne from de Salem and took a long sip. "Indeed they are, very impressive. Who was it said 'a sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic'?" but de Salem was too intrigued in watching his clockwork servants move amongst the guests. Purefoy watched as the bizarre creation made its way back through the crowd, returned the tray to its place on the table and climbed back on to its pedestal beside its fellows. He studied it for a moment, unnerved by the manner in which it had so easily blended once again into the background, becoming nothing but another immobile exhibit. He repressed a shudder. Purefoy turned to de Salem, who he realised had been talking at him for some time.

"…And there is Lord and Lady Buchanan, talking to Sir David and his wife. Oh yes, and there's Doctor Litefoot, examining some of the ushabti idols in that glass cabinet over there with Viktor – Doctor Mannheim. Yes, perfect, I should say. You should meet the good Doctor right away. Come on. I'm sure he'd be delighted to meet a man from _The Times_."

De Salem led him through the crowds towards two men of roughly equal age standing beside one of the glass cases, examining the items on display inside, one lecturing the other. The one, the 'student', was wearing a thoughtful expression and the glass of champagne he was clutching in his left hand appeared to be untouched. His companion looked up, distractedly, as de Salem and Purefoy approached, and smiled when he recognised his host. The lecturer came out from behind the cabinet, giving Purefoy the opportunity to see the other man properly; he was dressed in a fitted black suit with white shirt and bow tie, short jet black hair swept back from his forehead, and his blue-grey eyes glittered behind wire-rim glasses above a hawkish nose. Purefoy guessed he was in his mid-thirties, but could have been older. The tutor extended his hand and de Salem took it firmly.

"Lord de Salem, a pleasure as always." The man – Mannheim, Purefoy surmised – spoke with a slight Teutonic accent his 'w' coming as 'v', yet his mannerisms were pure English – the result, no doubt, of a boarding school upbringing, yet there was still a bow and twist of the head. "I trust you are well?"

De Salem nodded vigorously. "Well enough Mannheim." De Salem turned to the other man, "Doctor Litefoot, I see you've been admiring my little collection."

"In- Indeed," Litefoot flushed at being addressed and being asked a question as he shuffled his feet, adjusting his stance against the ebony cane upon which he was leaning, "Q- quite a find you had out there in the desert. The markings on this series of four ushabti figures, they seem very unusual-" He stopped suddenly, looking up to see Purefoy standing off to one side, sipping at his champagne. "Oh," He turned towards Purefoy "how terribly impolite." He swapped the cane to his left hand and extended his right. "Please, forgive me…?"

"Purefoy, George Purefoy."

"Please forgive me, Mister Purefoy." Litefoot flushed again, "It is just I get a little carried away when I find myself surrounded by such exquisite objects as these."

Purefoy, despite himself, laughed at the man's obvious nervousness and embarrassment. In truth, it was Lord de Salem's faux pas, or even Mannheim's, for not introducing them, but Purefoy took it as a measure of the man that he accepted the error on himself. "Not at all, Doctor Litefoot, it's a pleasure to meet you."

De Salem clapped his hands together with a hearty laugh. "Capital! Mannheim – Purefoy here is a reporter with _The Times_. He's going to be writing a piece about tonight's little soirée for the morning edition."

Mannheim offered Purefoy a sly, knowing grin. "Indeed? And have you decided yet how you intend to approach your piece?"

Purefoy glanced awkwardly at de Salem, who smiled at him expectantly. He cocked his head slightly to one side in thought. "I have not as yet. I think it rather hinges on the centrepiece." He paused, glancing around at the gathered crowd. "I'm sure it will be a spectacular revelation for us all."

De Salem stepped forward and clapped him – a little overzealously – on the back. "Don't doubt it, dear boy! Don't doubt it for a minute. Now, I really must attend to Lady Worthington over there. She looks a little lost amongst the canopic jars. I'll leave you in the capable hands of Viktor, here." He trailed off, his attention already across the other side of the room. Purefoy stepped aside to let him pass, and smiled as de Salem's exasperated voice boomed loudly behind him. "Lady Worthington… Over here, my dear."

Mannheim leaned in towards Purefoy. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Fine chap, but quite overwhelmed by his sense of self-magnificence, if you know what I mean – ran his expedition like some military crusade."

Purefoy and Litefoot chuckled, the latter nervously. "Precisely Doctor," Purefoy smiled, "It has been noted by several persons before."

"Of course," Mannheim looked momentarily troubled, "you will not print that, will you?"

Purefoy shook his head and smiled. "Indeed not, Doctor Mannheim. Your commentary is safe in my hands."

Mannheim laughed. "Excellent!" He sipped at his champagne. "Now, have they given you any notion about what's _really_ going on in this room?"

Purefoy frowned. "I'm not sure that I quite understand."

Mannheim grinned. "I will take that as a no." He beckoned Purefoy forward. "Stand here for a minute. Tell me what you see." Perplexed, Purefoy edged forward until he was standing beside the glass cabinet that the two men had been studying a few moments earlier. Mannheim gestured to the crush of people. "Out there, what do you see?"

"I see a crowd of people, all dressed in their finery, here to see the unrolling of a two-thousand-year-old mummy from Persia."

Mannheim laughed again. "I thought that's what you'd say."

"Why," Purefoy suddenly grew suspicious and wary that he was being tested or the butt of some societal joke, "what do you see?"

"I – or rather Edison here," Mannheim indicated Litefoot, "sees a crowd of people desperate to be seen, all dressed up for an ancient dead man. I see no one who is truly interested in whatever it is they'll find under those ancient bandages or the items on display in the cases in this hallway. No one here gives a _damn_ about Persia or de Salem's expedition. London society is nothing but a game, Mister Purefoy, and a dismal one at that. It is all about being seen, about showing one's face at the appropriate functions." He sighed with some vague exasperation, "That's why all of these people are here tonight, and that's precisely why de Salem invited them. He likes the pomp and glory. His ancestor would be turning in his grave!" Mannheim grinned, "Quite the devout Templar knight from all accounts."

"Then why are _you_ here, Doctor Mannheim, if you find it all so tiresome?"

Mannheim smiled. "Ah, now that _is_ a question. I could tell you that I am here because I have an academic interest in the subject – after all I was there when the expedition dug the sarcophagus out of those hot sands, that I enjoy the thrill of seeing ancient artefacts uncovered for the first time in millennia. But in truth I'm sure I'm just as bad as the rest of them, here to drink my complimentary champagne," He lifts the flute, "and strut around before the gathered society commentators like a peacock."

Purefoy chuckled. "Now I know you're telling the truth." Laughing, they both took another sip of their champagne. The other man looked a little uneasy. "And you Doctor Litefoot? What brings you here given your opinion of the gathering?"

Litefoot flushed again, "I- I ran into Viktor in London. He was kind enough to invite me along."

"We knew each other at Cambridge; at medical school – marvellous coincidence really I bumped into Edison at Saint Pancreas." Mannheim patted his friend's back, "What had it been, two, three years?" Litefoot nodded. "Now," Mannheim continued, "See those three chaps over there, standing together in a huddle?"

Purefoy strained to see over Mannheim's shoulder. "Ah, yes. I see." Three middle-aged men in top hats and black coats were standing by the doorway into the drawing room, gesticulating passionately and deep in the middle of what looked like a heated debate.

"Well, their story is something entirely different. Those are the other members of the expedition. They were the men who helped him pull all of these wonderful things out of the ground – or rather gave the orders for the local labour to," Mannheim grins at this, "and they're about to help him unwrap the priest, too."

"Why 'priest'? I thought it was a king?"

"Well so did we at first, I suppose that makes it a little more sensational, does it not?" Mannheim shrugged, "But Edison has told me of a differing theory."

Litefoot indicated the display case, "It's clear from looking at a handful of the items on display here that the character beneath those wrappings was never a king. And what is more, I feel inclined to believe that there is a very good reason why the tomb had lain undisturbed by grave robbers for so long."

Mannheim cleared his throat, "There was no mention of a curse on the case," and Litefoot flushed again. "But there are – things – about the nature of the burial that de Salem is not telling us, that even I know nothing of since I was ordered to remain in camp during the final excavation. Anyway, we are about to find out. Here's our host now…" Mannheim headed towards the centre of the room.

Purefoy turned to see de Salem taking up a position at the foot of the grand staircase. The lord clapped his hands together loudly, three times, and a hush fell over the assembled crowd. "Lords, ladies and gentlemen… Welcome. I hope your glasses are all suitably charged." There was a murmur of laughter and tinkle of glasses, "We are about to begin the process of unrolling the mummified remains of our Persian king. If you would care to take up a position in the drawing room, my associate Mister Wilfred Blake," at this, de Salem gestured toward the group of three men that Mannheim had just pointed out, "will be delighted to explain the process to you as we perform the task. We begin momentarily. Thank you."

There was a brief smattering of applause, and then the room started to bustle once again as people began making their way towards the large, white double doors that led into the drawing room. Purefoy turned to Litefoot who had already handed his largely untouched champagne to a waiting clockwork servant, and saw the doctor starting to head towards the door, limping slightly with a stiff right leg. He swallowed the contents of his glass in one gulp and regretted it – the bubbles caught in the back of his throat. He handed the flute to the immobile, irresponsive clockwork servant.

"Come on. Let's make sure we get a good spot." Tucking his notebook into his jacket pocket, Purefoy followed Litefoot around the rows of glass cabinets and on towards the drawing room. All the while, society veterans bearing dispassionate expressions milled around him, as though this next stage of the evening was something that they had to bear like a burden, in order to carry on with their socialising and drinking.

Litefoot, on the other hand, seemed keen to get both himself and Purefoy to the forefront of things, and when they finally crossed the threshold into the large drawing room, it was little effort for them to establish a position near the head of the table.

Purefoy took a moment to examine his surroundings. The curtains had been pulled shut against the twilight, and the room was dimly lit by an array of flickering gas lamps, casting everything in a warm, yellow glow. Dark wooden bookshelves lined the far wall, filled with musty old tomes that Purefoy could not distinguish from one another in the half-light. People were forming a wide circle around a long, central table, whispering to each other in subdued voices. Purefoy savoured the moment as he took his place beside Litefoot.

The item that dominated the room, of course, was the funeral casket of the ancient Persian; laid out on the table, the large wooden coffin was shaped in the rough form of its occupant and was a truly wonderful sight to behold. Every inch of it was covered in the most intricate patterns and designs, and it was clear to Purefoy that the craftsmen who had tooled the object had been masters of their art, all the more impressive for the fact they had lived around two thousand years in the past. Gold leaf shimmered in the warm light of the gas lamps, whilst blue ink and inlaid precious stones finished the effect. Hieroglyphs, subtly different but highly reminiscent of those of an Egyptian-style, were etched in long black columns over the torso and legs of the casket, and on top of these, other, more unusual symbols had been painted in splashes of red, obliterating much of the original script. The red ink had faded somewhat, however, so it was clear the markings were historical and had not been affected by de Salem and his men during the course of the expedition.

Purefoy leant in to examine the face that had been carved into the wooden lid. The eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, giving away nothing about the casket's occupant. It was so heavily stylised that he was unable to get any real impression of what the person had truly looked like in life.

A stranger leaned over to whisper in his ear. "Have you ever been to one of these things before?" Purefoy shook his head. "Well I hope you're not squeamish. Fascinating stuff, though, truly fascinating; I think we're in for a surprise." He offered Purefoy a confident smile before returning his attention to the proceedings.

Purefoy glanced around. The other guests were huddling in behind them now, clutching drinks, their faces gleaming in the wan light. Utterly different to the utter social animals Purefoy had thought them to be – indeed almost _instructed _them to take them as being – mere moments before. Purefoy folded his arms behind his back, and waited.

A moment later a hush rippled through the gathered throng of people as the five other members of the expedition filed into the room. They had each shed their suit jackets and hats, rolled up their shirtsleeves and donned leather gloves and smocks. De Salem and Blake were first to step up to the table, whilst the other two men cleared a space for them, as Mannheim worked at asking the audience to stand back to make room. De Salem was carrying some sort of bizarre contraption, which a moment later proved to be a mechanical visual aid, like a pair of spectacles attached to a wire framework that fitted neatly over his head. Lenses clicked down before his eyes, and he fiddled with a tool on either side of the device to adjust their focus. Thus prepared, de Salem approached the casket, whilst Blake skirted around to the head of the table, readying himself to address the audience. He cleared his throat, and the whispering voices of the crowd gave way to silence.

"I advise those ladies present or those with weak hearts or of fragile constitutions to momentarily avert your eyes. Our first task will be to free the lid from the casket, and whilst we expect to find only another, smaller casket inside, we have no way of knowing how accurate our assumptions may be." His voice was thin and nasal, and he delivered his speech with an impeccable precision. Purefoy looked him up and down. The man was slim, drawn and clean-shaven, quite the opposite of the burly de Salem. His blond hair was brushed back from his forehead in a neat side parting and his eyes were a piercing blue. "There are many things about the burial of this ancient king that are inconsistent with other contemporary burials in the same region and from what we know of the Egyptian practices." Blake stepped nearer to the casket and waved his hand to indicate the splashes of red paint that had been hastily daubed across the engraved hieroglyphs. "For example, we have no understanding of the nature of these red markings, but suspect them to be a magic ward of some type, a warning to anyone in the afterlife who may happen upon the spirit of the person contained within the casket. Of course, any such concerns are moot – nothing but superstitious nonsense – but it nevertheless serves to suggest that there may be more irregularities contained within the casket." He gave a dramatic pause. "None of our assumptions can be trusted. We hope to discover more as we proceed."

Mannheim glanced up at Litefoot and Purefoy with an unreadable look on his face, his eyes now half-hidden and distorted by the thick goggles. Blake approached the casket, taking his place opposite de Salem, who had moved around to the other side of the table. They both placed their hands on the lid of the casket, and together they proceeded to test the seal.

The two men worked the lid back and forth, but after a couple of minutes it became clear that it was stuck fast, warped with age, grime and decay. Unperturbed, de Salem took a three-inch blade from the pouch in the front of his smock and set about running the knife along the join, hacking away at the seal in an effort to work the lid free. Purefoy noticed Litefoot and others wincing as flakes of gold leaf and two-thousand-year-old hieroglyphs fell to the polished floor by their feet, destroyed through vandalism bought on by impatience.

De Salem did not take long to complete his rather brutal assault on the seal, and a minute or so later he had resumed his position opposite Blake as they prepared to lift the lid. Purefoy edged closer, anxious to get a good view of whatever they would find inside. De Salem grunted as he wedged his fingers underneath the rim of the seal. There was a splintering crack, followed by a loud gasp of relief, as the two men heaved the lid free of the base. They placed it hastily on the table anxious both to relinquish the load and examine the contents within the casket. Dust plumed into the air from within the shell of the casket, undisturbed for millennia. Purefoy wrinkled his nose. There was a dry odour from within the wooden coffin: the scent of ancient, foetid decay.

The five men from the expedition hurried forward to crowd around the casket, and Purefoy found it hard to see what was going on as they gestured to one another excitedly, clearly animated by their find. He edged around the table, feeling uncomfortable as the press of people behind him became more pronounced, each of the guests straining to see over the others. When he did finally manage to get a good look, he nearly gasped aloud with surprise. The contents of the casket were magnificent. Another coffin, decorated in shimmering black and gold, lay inside the outer shell like a Russian doll, perfectly designed to fit within the larger casing. The decoration was impeccable: beneath a thin patina of dust it was so bright and glassy it could almost have been new. The inner coffin itself had been carved out of a dark hardwood and inlaid with generous bands of bright, yellow gold. The face seemed broader and more detailed than the visage on the outer casket, and its eyes had been set with deep red gemstones that reflected the warm glow of the electric lamps about the room. Once again, the torso of the sarcophagus was covered in a spidery pattern of white hieroglyphs and symbols that, to Purefoy, seemed as exotic as the entire experience of being there, in the drawing room of the grand house, watching the scene unfold before his eyes. He was more than a little awed by the experience.

He glanced at Litefoot, who was leaning inwards towards the casket studying the ancient markings. He looked thoughtful. Purefoy was just about to ask him what had caught his attention when de Salem stepped back from the table and clapped his hands together to garner attention. "My lords, ladies and gentlemen, you are in the presence of a truly magnificent find!" de Salem's excitement was clearly genuine. "The inner casket is like nothing we could have expected. The black and gold decoration is highly irregular. Please, take a moment to enjoy the sight before we continue with our unrolling." He urged the others back from the edge of the table and waved a handful of people forward to take a look. Blake, Mannheim and the other two members of the expedition on the stage – Purefoy considered he would have to elicit their names by the end of the evening for his article – moved away reluctantly and stood off to one side, whispering to one another with some urgency, as many of the guests came forward to peer into the open casket of the dead man.

Purefoy caught Litefoot's attention, keeping his voice low. "So, tell me, Doctor Litefoot, do you know if this is quite as irregular as Lord de Salem has cause to make us believe?"

Litefoot furrowed his brow. "Indeed so. Though this is my first 'unwrapping', from what Viktor has told me, it is quite the most singular casket ever seen. The black and gold decoration is most unusual. And the fact that the occupant has been rendered anonymous, by virtue of the complete absence of any cartouches bearing his name on the inner or outer caskets, is particularly strange. There is certainly nothing like it in the annals of the British Museum. I did some little research this day knowing I was coming here."

Purefoy nodded. "I can not deny it; I intended to do the same, but..." He looked around. People were beginning to mill around amongst themselves once again, and the hubbub of chatter had noticeably increased. Mannheim and Litefoot's deductions had been right; most of the people in the room had feigned a minimal amount of interest in the contents of the casket, but left to their own devices, in light of the recent proceedings, had reverted to conversing with their neighbours about the most inane and minuscule minutiae of daily society. He searched for de Salem, and eventually spotted the peer of the realm by the fireplace, deep in the middle of a heated discussion with Blake.

Mannheim moved over to the pair, smoothing the front of his apron distractedly. "This has thrown them into something of a quandary." He nodded in the direction of the bickering men, who were still dressed in their leather smocks and bizarre headgear. "Blake wants to halt proceedings so that they may spend a little more time making a study of the inner casket, whilst de Salem is anxious to give his guests a good show. Colt is undecided and Connelly, well Connelly backed Blake and never wanted such a public and invasive unwrapping. I feel de Salem will make a point of continuing with the performance." Mannheim sniffed, "In fact, Connelly was rather perturbed that his niece Eleanor was omitted from this gathering. After all _she_ was the sketcher and artist of the expedition. She should be present to catalogue any discoveries."

"Yes, I rather think our host would much prefer to destroy the thing than allow his guests to leave unsatisfied."

"Well, Mister Purefoy. I do believe you have the measure of the situation. I wonder. Do you-"

"Well, really, de Salem! This is unbearable. I shall have no further part in it!" Mannheim was cut off abruptly when Blake, raising his voice above the general noise of prattling society, exploded at de Salem, who was now leaning against the fireplace, his face unreadable behind the mechanical spectacles that he still wore over his eyes. The room was silent as Blake, his shoes clicking loudly on the tiled floor, turned and made a hasty exit from the drawing room, his disagreement with de Salem apparent to everyone in the room.

De Salem stepped forward, his hands wide apart in a placating gesture. "Let us continue with the task in hand. Arthur?" He beckoned to Colt, who readily stepped forward to adopt Blake's place. De Salem turned to the sea of faces. "We shall now extract the inner casket from the outer shell, before exposing the mummified remains of the king inside."

The two men closed on the casket base and, reaching inside, fumbled around until they had a grip on the snugly fit inner coffin. Their eyes met, and de Salem counted to three before wheezing with the strain as they lifted the weighty coffin out of its former resting place. There was a collective gasp from the audience as the true magnitude of the casket's beauty became evident. The two men carefully laid the object on the table beside the base, as Mannheim joined the others on the dais and aided Connelly in making more room to work by replacing the outer lid on the base and moving the larger casket to a spot on the floor behind them.

De Salem ran his hands gently over the top of the coffin. There was no denying how impressive it was. The thing seemed to radiate an aura all of its own, capturing the attention – and the imagination, Purefoy assumed – of the assembled guests, many of whom had forgotten their idle conversations and were now watching with apparent interest.

De Salem looked up, "Are you ready?" Colt nodded. They both ran their fingers along the seal between the coffin lid and base. Then, with a brief glance at the gathered crowd, de Salem slid his fingers into the gap and together the two men lifted the lid. This time it came away easily, and Purefoy found he was holding his breath, transfixed.

In truth it came as something of an anti-climax after the grandeur of the earlier unveiling. As de Salem and his man laid the casket lid carefully to one side, Purefoy was able to see into the coffin. There, amongst a bed of decayed reeds, was a human figure, bound in yellowing linen bandages, only the very tips of its claw-like fingers exposed for the world to see. The bandages were covered in an archaic scrawl that Purefoy did not recognise, black, faded runes that appeared to have been inked onto the linen before the body was wrapped.

De Salem took no time to ponder his next move, or to concern himself with any sense of decorum that Purefoy felt might have been appropriate in the handling of the dead. He reached directly into the coffin and scooped out the withered body, fetching it up into his arms and then, as Colt moved the coffin shell out of the way, placing it down upon the tabletop. He turned to Purefoy, smiling. "Now, let us see how our ancient king exited this world."

Taking up the same blade he had used earlier to break his way into the outer casket, de Salem made a slit into the wrappings along the right side of the mummy. Then, taking up a fistful of bandages, he began to rip and peel away the layers, discarding the wrapping casually to the floor. Purefoy was appalled, and almost started forward to challenge the peer in his mistreatment of the ancient artefact, but remembered himself at the last moment and was able to bite his tongue. Layers of crumbling linen fell away.

Soon enough, de Salem had exposed a large expanse of the mummy's wax-like flesh, part decayed and browned with age. It had taken on the appearance of beaten leather, hardened with exotic compounds and age. De Salem had also extracted a number of small trinkets from within the wrappings: small jewels and talismans, a number of blue ushabti icons and a disc of gold, engraved with a series of intricate hieroglyphs. All the while, Mannheim had stood watching on the sidelines impassively.

A few moments later, de Salem had unrolled everything but the head of the long-dead Persian. It was clear now that the body had been imperfectly preserved: the flesh had decayed around the ribs, exposing the bones, and the hands were nothing but bony protrusions with the last remnants of human tissue still attached. Sweating, de Salem straightened his back and rubbed his hands together. It was clear he was now so involved in his task that he had practically forgotten about the multitude of people that stood around him, watching his every move. When he spoke, it was barely louder than a whisper. "Now, we look on the face of our king for the first time in two thousand years."

He gripped a loose flap of linen and began slowly unrolling the wrappings around the mummy's head. After a moment it became evident that the cadaver still maintained wisps of thick, black hair on the crown of its head, as locks of the stuff fell loose as the bandages came away. No one spoke, as the final strands of the linen were unravelled, finally revealing the Persian's face.

A woman somewhere in the gathering screamed. De Salem gave a visible shudder and stepped away from the mummy. Purefoy looked on in horror. There were shouts from the back of the drawing room.

The dead man's face was a twisted visage of terror and agony. He was screaming, his mouth wide open in a silent, millennia-long cry. His features had been perfectly preserved; his eyes stitched shut with coarse threads, his brow furrowed in intense pain.

Litefoot looked round at Purefoy, the shock evident on his face. "He must have been mummified alive."

Purefoy felt bile rising in his gullet. He looked away.

De Salem had removed his headgear and was standing back from the table, a deathly pallor to his cheeks. People were talking anxiously all around them. The other member from the expedition came forward and hurriedly covered the mummy with a white sheet. Colt fetched de Salem a brandy from a cabinet beside the fireplace. Guests began to spill back into the hallway, where the automatons were waiting with more drinks.

Litefoot put a hand on Purefoy's arm. "Come along, dear chap. I think the party's over for tonight." They followed the other guests as they filed out into the grand hallway, Purefoy glancing back over his shoulder to see de Salem shakily consuming his brandy in one long draw.

He turned to Litefoot. "Not quite what I was expecting, I must admit."

Litefoot smiled queasily, "Nor I, yet I can't help thinking that all of the clues were there. It was evident that there was something unusual about the burial, and now we have a mystery. There has to be a reason why that man was mummified alive." He met Purefoy's gaze, his eyes gleaming. "I do enjoy a good mystery, Mister Purefoy."

Purefoy smiled. "Well, I think that's enough excitement for me, Doctor Litefoot. And I have an article to write for the morning edition." He glanced at his pocket watch. "I think I should be on my way."

Litefoot nodded. "Very well, Mister Purefoy, I suspect I shall do the same. It has been a pleasure to meet you. I'll look out for your article in _The Times_." He moved his cane to his left hand, extended his right, and Purefoy took it firmly.

"Likewise, Doctor Litefoot, I do hope we meet again." Litefoot smiled. "Good evening then." He turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Litefoot, his head swimming with images of the screaming dead man, straightened his jacket, took one last look around the thronging crowd and made his way slowly towards the exit and the street outside. It was still raining. He hunched against the downpour, and set off for home. It was going to be a long night.

4. A Mystery Deepens

_Winton Road Police Station, Limehouse_

"Look, I'm sorry Miss. Your father's disappearance is cause for concern I agree, but there is no one here to help." The desk clerk waved dismissively behind himself, "We're short-handed, what constables we've got here are out on the beat an' Sergeant Hobson is up at Division." He sighed, "I'd be out there meself if not for this," he indicated his right arm – or rather the brass and wooden prosthesis in place of a flesh-and-bone arm. "Clockwork servants are one thing, but it seems this man's police force doesn't want 'augments' to be seen in public." He sighed resignedly, "But wi'out the force I'd be in the workhouse so…" Scratching his mechanical arm absent-mindedly, he pondered for a moment, "Look, I'll tell you want, you give me the details and I'll have one of the lads look into it when they get back."

The young woman smiled through the sadness, "That's very kind of you. It is so unlike father to have missed an entire performance, Ashok had to host"

"Performance…?" the desk clerk studied Henri for a moment, "I thought I'd seen you somewhere, you're Henrietta Jago of the Palace! Your _Champagne Charlie_ is worthy of the West End! I liked that Lottie Randall, don't get me wrong, but you're _my_ favourite singer."

Glad to be recognised, and in such high regard, the performer in Henri comes to the fore as she drops a slight curtsey, "The _Singing Sensation of the Palace_," she adopted an over-emphasised Cockney accent, "Hat yor service, sor." She smiled briefly and regained a more professional and worried demeanour, and looked hopeful. "Does that mean you're able to offer assistance sir?"

"I am sorry Miss Jago," the desk clerk shook his head, "As I said, there is no-one else here apart from me and Doctor Litefoot if he hasn't already left seein' as he isn't supposed to be here for another day or so."

"Litefoot…?" Henri pondered, "Could I speak to him please? He's an acquaintance – well my father spoke of a Doctor Litefoot as a friend." Yet she thought, "_Wasn't it a 'Professor' Litefoot?_"

The clerk thought for a moment, looking at the woman about his own daughter's age, "I'll call down and see if he can come up." He indicated a row of seats against the wall, "If you'll take a seat miss…?" The clerk waited for Henri to sit before he headed into the rear office and disappeared from view.

Henri sat paying more attention to her gloves than anything else, her mind a whirl as to what could have happened to her father and whether or not she had done the right thing by sending her mother to her sister's in Epping; she did not for how long before she became aware of someone coming from behind the desk. Henri looked up as the desk clerk indicated her to the new arrival. If this were the Litefoot of her father's acquaintance, then her father did him an injustice with the description. Far from the gentleman he described as being close to her own dear father's age, before her was a much younger chap – possibly only a few years older than herself, clean shaven but with short, oiled black hair swept back from his forehead and blue-grey eyes above a hawkish nose and behind wire-rim glasses. "_He might be quite a handsome fellow_ she thought, _if only he wasn't quite so flushed and if he would only look up!_" The gentleman approached, favouring his left leg and walking with the aid of a cane.

"M- Miss Jago?" Henri offered her hand, which the new arrival took and kissed, "Hi- Higgins said y- y- you wanted to speak with me." With that his complexion turned even redder. Henri remains seated as Litefoot lowers himself onto the seat next to her.

"_I embarrass the poor dear!_" Henri stifled a laugh. "I believe you know my father – Henry Gordon Jago of the Palace Theatre? He went missing from our theatre yesterday."

"M- Miss Jago," Litefoot paled slightly, "I am afraid you have me confused with _my_ father Professor Litefoot." Litefoot cleared his throat, "I'm Doctor Edison Litefoot, father spoke to me of your father," he started to blush again, "I must admit, I thought they were Tall Tales. I do apologise."

Henri laughed slightly at the apposite divination of the situation, when her own father had told her of a 'Time Traveller' and battling giant rats in the sewers under London with the aid of a doctor and an army man; she had thought them little more than tales like those of Wells. Yet here was the son of one of the cohorts apparently corroborating the tales. "_When father returns, I had better apologise to him!_" She thought. "I am sorry Doctor Litefoot; it is just the thought of my dismissal of father's tales. I believe that father wanted me to pass this to your father." She reached into her small bag and pulled out the letter Jago senior had written in the theatre. "But he omitted an address. Then after he disappeared…" her voice trailed off for a moment, "… mother thought it best to notify the authorities despite the fact he alludes in the letter to a meeting with two gentlemen purporting to be from the police."

Litefoot took the proffered letter and read it. "Well… maybe we had better adjourn to my office…" Litefoot stood and offered Henri his hand to guide her to his office.

Litefoot's office, it transpired was in the station's small mortuary, a cold and dreary place, in keeping, Henri supposed, with its function as a repository of the dead. This was the place where murder victims or other suspicious deaths would be bought for closer examination, before the cadavers were forwarded to a funeral parlour and prepared for burial or experts bought in from Scotland Yard if the need warranted. Paupers, of course, tended to go directly from the table to a wooden box, and then into the ground, without the dignity of an elaborate service. The state did what it could, but as the politicians insisted on reminding everybody, it was not a charity.

Henri looked the place up and down as Litefoot spoke about being new to the area and the police service. The room had a clinical feel, with white tiled walls and floor, steel instruments set out carefully on wooden trolleys and a pair of marble slabs, empty and awaiting the freshly dead. Henri shivered; the room reminded her of a bizarre underground station, with a curved roof and tiled archways leading to other rooms. The entire building seemed to echo with their movements, silent save for the voices of the man as he stuttered and stumbled through an introduction and attempted to square away some of the more errant papers. "I… I can only apologise Miss Jago. It is… only my second day and…" he trailed off.

Henri offered to help tidy up the scattering of papers and piles of boxes strewn throughout the small annex, Litefoot accepted gratefully. In amongst the files pertaining to the latest disappearances of young women and an apparent identification of the latest victim, there were journal articles on the advancements in the fields of prosthetics and surgical rebuilding of casualties by Doctor Andrei Ivanov of Saint Petersburg and what appeared to be medical school memorabilia. Henri pulled out a framed photograph showing a slightly younger Litefoot and a dozen others in army uniform. "Is this of your school detachment?"

Litefoot twisted to look at the photograph, "N… no. That… that was taken in Newcastle – a year ago, I… I was serving as an army doctor there during the final onslaught." Henri paled as she noticed for the first time the fatigue on the lined and worn faces. "The front lines were barely three miles away, the stretcher-bearers were bringing in casualties every few minutes; bodies riddled with shrapnel, limbs torn off in the fighting. It was an abattoir." He breathed deeply, "If you ever hear anyone speak of the 'glories of war', they have not visited a military hospital." Litefoot spoke without his apparently usual hesitancy, "I was recruited straight out of medical school and sent up to Northumberland." His eyes glazed as his relived his past. Henri noted with some interest his stutter gone when he spoke of technical matters.

_Newcastle 1890_

In 1888, Scottish Seditionists, after five years of skirmishing, marched on Newcastle as they had in 1640, but with Britain's armies scattered around the globe, the few regiments in Home Service were mobilised northwards. For two long and bloody years there was stalemate and an increasing call for conscripts and draftees in 'support' such as medical personnel and miners on the English side. Amongst these draftees were very recently graduated Doctors Edison Litefoot and Malcolm McGeehan.

Major Jonathon Steed stood in what had been a minor local government official's office on the eighth level of a building in the centre of the former city. An explosion had ripped through the room recently, and two of its walls had been torn out. Its ceiling hung precariously over him, and every few seconds the vibrations from a fresh blast below travelled far enough to make it tremble and threaten to give way.

From this uncertain vantage point he could look out over what remained of the outer zones of Newcastle at the ebb and flow of battle, at fire and smoke and metal, and the smoky-khaki of his regiment – the Royal Warwickshires – that marked the extent of the enemy's progress through the ruins. The Warwickshires had been fighting a rearguard action to buy time for the evacuees. Fighting in close formation, they held their ground long after others had given way. They found themselves driven back, all the same. Again and again, blossoms of fire erupted within their ranks and their lines were broken and then erased, to be redrawn, a little shorter than before and a little further back, but as firmly as ever.

Steed drew his greatcoat tighter around his body and tucked his gloved hands into its loose sleeves. He could have sworn that the temperature had dropped within the last hour. He took a deep breath, inhaling the chilly, cordite-laden air. Streaks of light scarred the overcast grey sky to the south; the trails of atmotic craft carrying more troops clear of Newcastle. "_They, at least, would live to fight another day, albeit in a different theatre of war, one in which they might win. How did things get like this?_" He thought, dangerously close to sedition "_How could what, a few short years ago, was thought to be a small albeit physical terrorist organisation become a full-fledged army?_" He shuddered in the chill.

Steed heard footsteps approaching even over the clamour of war cries and the crump of mortars. He turned to greet Sergeant Edwin Mitchell, a tall, thoughtful man, approaching middle age, unflappable. Mitchell threw up a crisp salute that contrasted in its parade-ground precision with his dirty and stained battle dress, and announced, "All done sir. Orders have been sent to the eight on our list and the Doctor. I filed a requisition order for a canal barge and I mentioned the General's name as you suggested, I think I impressed upon the quartermaster the importance of this particular request."

Steed nodded, "I just hope the men get to the Brigadier before those Scots bastards do. This could be the most important mission the regiment has ever undertaken, the one that will decide how we are remembered." He turned back to the battlefield, on which an array of Scottish-controlled tanks, taken no doubt when the Clyde shipyards fell seven years ago, had managed to gain some purchase in the rubble to advance. The few tanks the Warwickshires' were able to muster, though outnumbered, were responding, moving cumbersomely into position, trying to draw a fresh defensive line across this new, unexpected front. "At any rate," Steed sighed, "it appears it may be the last."

The Scottish tanks opened fire, sending shell after shell into the British lines. Before Steed could duck for cover, the ceiling and the remnants of the offices collapsed. The Scottish tanks continued to fire shell-after-shell into the rubble.

It was dark. Across the city, distant fires burned. The great fires were burning in another district. In a lull in the frantic world of battlefield surgery, owed not doubt to the lack of any offensives within the last few hours, Doctor Litefoot stepped out from the main tent and arched his aching back. He moved towards the edge of the escarpment surrounding the small camp. As Litefoot watched, some low building popped in a sudden blossom of flame. A factory had half-collapsed beside the street, its original function unguessable now. Girders struck out of the ruins like the stems of dead plants. Crouched on one of them, still as a resting stork, McGeehan surveyed the city.

Litefoot slogged up a pile of rubbish, detritus crackling under his boots. The smell of greasy food filtered up from the camp below and his stomach rumbled. He looked up at his fellow surgeon. "Why not get some sleep Malcolm? You've been up thirty-six hours now."

He did not move. He gazed out across the great battlefield of Newcastle, once an industrial city, now a place of death. Litefoot wondered what must be going through McGeehan's mind as he surveyed the destruction wrought on his home city. There was a crack of a rifle and McGeehan fell from his vantage point, Litefoot dove for cover as further cracks of rifle fire split the air. Before he could do more, a private pulled him back to the camp to pass on new orders.

An hour later Litefoot looked down the barge. It slid silently through the canal from Elswick northwards towards Gosforth, passing the buildings – abandoned factories and warehouses, broken windows staring like blind eyes, rotting and blasted, pitted with shell-holes, marred with carbon and ash from fires – on the waterside. The soldiers sat quietly behind armoured gunwales; each one a small, hunched shape like a roosting owl. The strongest sound came from the soft plop of the bow wave as the barge cut the water closely followed by the steam engine hissing in the damp environment as dirty grey ash-snow fell.

Although a doctor with the honorary rank of Captain and not an infantry officer, Litefoot felt a stab of fierce pride. Only a year ago, these seven boys – men really, barely a handful of years younger than him – had been raw recruits, now they were soldiers, their faces looked back at him, but all determined and sharp-eyed; all this to get a mere doctor up to the forward command!

The barge rocked and Litefoot glanced up. Gunfire came from one of the further areas of the city; it sounded like a police rattle along the canal. The water was cluttered with junk – lumps of masonry, girders, even half of a spotter autogyro sticking out like the fin of a metal shark. "_No monsters here,_" thought Litefoot, "_Unless you count the dead Scot bobbing there_." They slipped past a body, the coat of which floated around the corpse like the wings of a downed bat. Water slapped gently against the side of the boat.

Suddenly there were several whines of distant, but incoming mortar shells. The sergeant barked out orders and the naval rating in charge of the engine increased power, picking up the pace of the craft and directing the vessel towards the bank.

The barge slammed into the bank and the occupants baled out just ahead of the barrage bracketed the canal where they had been – where they _would _have been – and showered them with water and shrapnel. The building they found themselves had been in a former hostelry for canal workers Litefoot surmised; there was a sooty mess in one corner, the remnants of a fire from books, leaflets, pieces of broken chair, paperwork and other combustible materials. But he did not remain there for long before the small unit charged through the streets towards their objective barely a hundred yards from where they had beached.

The compound was under siege, Scots lay around the perimeter in heaps. British soldiers manned the barricades in two ranks – a sergeant stood in the middle of them, directing their fire at an approaching assault force, "Front rank – fire!" A dozen rifles fired as one, "Rear rank – fire!" Again a dozen rifles fired as one whilst the first rank reloaded, "Front rank – fire!" in a fluid, well-practised move, the dozen soldiers stood and fired as one whilst their comrades behind reloaded. Once they had fired they knelt as one, "Rear rank – Fire!" The rear dozen stood and fired and the process began again.

A sudden flash of metal blazed between two buildings; a British _Chieftain_ tank lurched across the road aflame. Two Scots scurried out of what had once been a fire station, hauling a captured Gatling gun between them. Injured men were dragged away. Fresh soldiers ran through the ruined houses in a half-crouch and dropped into the battle-line. The night stank of fire and dust.

A dirty and stained corporal waited for them a little further on, "This way!" he called, pointing and they headed to the main HQ, Litefoot slowed so as not to leave his orderly behind. Now he could hear the harsh shouts of the Scots. Someone screamed and gunfire rattled off to the north. Yet there was no panic. The few remaining locals were ferocious and disciplined. This was their ground and they would fight and die for it. Despite his medical training, a wave of giddiness struck Litefoot and with it, deep respect for the soldiers who had been sent here to fight.

Then the Scottish artillery started up and all became black.

There was a blur, he was aware of someone speaking "Hey the doc's alive." Then blackness once again overwhelmed him.

A feeling of being grabbed and lifted washed over him before it faded all too quickly, then a vague awareness of his neck being braced before darkness encroached once more.

Bright, painful flashes of light burned his eyes, "Hang in there, the flyers are here!" Greyness impinged before a blurred sense of being grasped, of being lifted and pain came before sweet blackness overwhelmed him.

Sounds echoed in a chamber, a noise of engines, echoes, vibrations of motion, a prick in the arm and the command to "Sleep" before unconsciousness once again overwhelmed him.

"It was nineteen days later, _nineteen days_, when I came to in a military hospital in Birmingham." He laughed with ill-humour. "We were sent up beyond the front lines so I could carry out an operation on some Brigadier Baxter, attaché to the 'Minister of Peace with responsibilities for Scottish Operations'," he scoffed, "or some such self-aggrandising title." Litefoot shook his head, "For some reason, Baxter had travelled to Newcastle to witness the fighting first hand and ended up catching a bullet in his back. The bullet was lodged close to his spine, too close to be moved." He moved slightly, "I was sent up to remove the bullet so Baxter could be evacuated rather than falling into Scottish hands and being tortured. Of course, the Scots began their offensive before the generals predicted and blasted the compound with artillery fire and infantry assault." His eyes glazed slightly, "It was _only then_ command thought to scramble an RAN squadron to snatch us out. By the time they got there, I was – apparently – only one of 32 left alive; thirty-two out of over 300 – not one of the lads I went north with survived. Baxter was already dead when we got there." He shook his head again.

Henri squirmed slightly and cleared her throat, uncertain as to what, if anything, to say. "I am so sorry."

Litefoot flushed scarlet. "I… oh… I am sorry," he clutched Henri's hand, "Forgive me Miss Jago please. I… I got lost in the moment. Fa… father said not to regale pretty-" he flushed even redder as he spoke without thinking, "anyone with war stories." He looked to the floor crest-fallen.

Henri smiled affectionately, "Bear it not a thought. 'A memory shared is a memory remembered' regardless of what that memory is. If memories are shared then, with luck, we can learn from them. I bear you no malice for sharing your memories with me." She patted his hand reassuringly to which Litefoot turns even redder. "I thought that Brigadier Baxter died in a terrorist bombing in Liverpool though."

Litefoot coughed, "W… which would be a 'better' death p… propaganda wise; 'high-ranking army officer shot in the back' or 'high-ranking army officer murdered by cowards'?"

"I see the point." Henri blinked, "But I came to see you about my father. He has disappeared."

"Well Miss Jago… I am but an h… humble doctor. I am no investigator," Henri looked crestfallen, "Maybe my father will know – they are friends of some years. It is possible they are together. I will see if S… Sergeant Higgins will let us have use of one of the cars. It… it is awkward walking with this," he tapped his right leg with his cane. "Surgeons did a fine job repairing it, but damage to muscles was permanent."

Henri spoke softly, "Thank you Doctor Litefoot." Litefoot adjusted his jacket and picked up his hat, before opening the door for Henri. The pair headed back to the front desk.

"Ah Doctor Litefoot," Higgins grinned, "Saves me a trip." He coughed slightly, "Inspector Hawthorne has asked you attend a scene of crime on Hampton Road. He's sent his car back for you."

Litefoot was torn between his duties as a police doctor and examiner and the appeal made by Henrietta Jago, after a brief pause, he looked to Henri, "M… Miss Jago, if you would a…. accompany me in the car; we could discuss more y… your request. A… after d… discharging my police duties… maybe we could… continue to my father's residence?"

Henri nodded her agreement, worried at the delay but there was little to be obtained by argument. Litefoot returned to his office and retrieved his Gladstone bag. Within minutes they were in a car on their way to the scene of a crime.

_Hampton Road, Thirty Minutes Earlier_

The residence was in a large block of flats that had been built in the early part of the century. After a period of fashionable existence a few decades earlier its popularity had begun to wane. Expensive to maintain, the unprepossessing block had changed hands regularly for ever decreasing amounts as successive landlords took the rent and never bothered to bring the place up to date or even carry out anything other than essential repairs. It had started out as a good address but was now a shabby wreck; its paint long since faded and the stucco rounded and softened by the corrosive action of the wind and rain and now the particulates bought down from the exhausts of the coal-fired vehicles.

Detective Inspector Hawthorne and Detective Sergeant Reeves-Latimer stepped into the musty hall and were greeted warmly by the ripe odour of decay. Out of two hundred apartments, they understood from the ancient doorman who wore an equally ancient, faded and stained bellhop's uniform, barely eight were still occupied. The others had been boarded up and the basins, baths and toilets smashed to discourage squatters. The owner was a wealthy financier who was waiting for the last tenants to leave before he flattened the site and built a factory or workhouse. The doorman had pointed the way up the stairs.

The apartments they had been called to were on the sixth floor, and as Constable Baker – the man first called to the scene – led the way up the creaking circular staircase, Hawthorne looked over the banisters and up at the domed skylight, whose myriad of leaks he could see had been crudely repaired with waterproof tape. The banisters were rickety and the dust of dry rot rose when they touched them. Padlocked doors greeted them on every landing.

"Which was the number of the rooms again?" asked Reeves-Latimer, she spoke with a slight Midlands accent.

"Number 614, ma'am" whispered Baker, "this way."

He led them slowly down the hall, through doors that were wedged open and past corroded wall lights glowing with bulbs of minuscule gas supply. Dust rose from the aged carpet as they approached the front door to 614. Hawthorn pulled out his torch to examine it more closely. They could see that the dirt and fluff had drifted against it; the doorknob had a small spider living on it and everything was veiled with a thin coat of dust.

"No one's been in here for rather a long time," observed Baker.

"About a year, actually..." Hawthorne and Baker turned to Reeves-Latimer, who by now had pulled a notebook out of her jacket pocket, "According to a report filed when the occupant was last seen by her neighbour," she read down the page slightly, "a Miss Marian Wilkins."

A low, husky voice responded from behind them, "That's Wilmore actually."

They turned to see a woman of perhaps thirty-five, standing dramatically in the shaft of light that shone out of the door to her rooms and pierced the Stygian gloom of the corridor. She watched them all with a well-practised air of laconic indifference, a half-smile on her lips parted slightly by the expensive-looking cigarette. Yet there was an almost indefinable underlying discomfort to her actions.

"Sorry?" muttered Hawthorne.

"About a year ago," she repeated. "I told the police that Carrie – Miss Simpson – had vanished and there had been the sound of running water from her rooms, but they never came. The landlord sold this place – said rent had t' go someplace else. No one ever came to collect," she waved a hand to indicate the corridor; "no one cares about this place anymore, but rent-free is rent-free." She laughed bitterly. "Now who are you?" She inhaled on her cigarette and blew the smoke upwards. Hawthorne walked over to her.

"Inspector Sherlock Hawthorne, these are Sergeant Megan Reeves-Latimer and Constable Baker. More to the point who are you?"

She nodded in the direction of Reeves-Latimer but did not look at her. "She just told you – well almost, Marian Wilmore." She leant against the doorframe to her rooms and lit another cigarette. "So… you're the police. Why now?"

"When did you last see your neighbour?" asked Hawthorne, trying to gather his senses.

Wilmore flicked the ash off her cigarette. "About this time last year; I saw a man come lumbering out. He completely ignored me and he went downstairs. I went back indoors but I could still hear the water running. He never came back and I called the maintenance engineer the following week. He never turned up and it is still running. Then yesterday, another fella – not seen him around before, paid a visit; caught him hammering on her front door. He looked a bit agitated and I asked if he was all right. He was a bit startled when he saw me and he fled. My guess is that they're trying to make the building unsafe so we all have to move out." She looked around the shabby corridor and pulled at a piece of curling wallpaper disdainfully. It tore off easily in her hand and she crushed the fragment to little pieces. She suddenly looked bored. "Can I go? If you want me, you know where to find me. I don't go out a lot." Wilmore did not wait for a reply. She just looked at them all, smiled, went back inside her room and closed the door noiselessly behind her.

Hawthorne sighed and put an ear to one of the glass panes of 614's front door.

"What was that about?" declared Baker.

Hawthorne raised a finger to his lips. "Quiet." They all stood in silence for a moment. "She's right. There is still water running." He stepped back and gestured to Baker to force the lock. Together, Detective Inspector and Constable pushed the door open against a mound of mail that had collected in the hall and then moved to the second door that separated the hall from the rest of the dwelling. Hawthorne paused and turned to look at Reeves-Latimer and Baker, seeing his own feelings of foreboding reflected on their faces.

As Hawthorne grasped the door handle it came away in his hand and the door itself fell away into a rotten soggy heap. A wave of damp air blew over them all. The moisture in the air had exacted a terrible toll on the rooms. Everything they could see was in an advanced state of rot. The carpets and furnishings were thickly mildewed, and the paper had peeled off the walls and lay in heaps next to the mouldy skirting. The books in the bookcase had rotted down to dark mulch and everything in the flat was covered with a thin layer of moisture. There was a heavy smell of damp, and Hawthorne noticed that several fungi had colonised and started to grow on the walls and floors. He felt the floorboards collapse gently under his weight, the patterned carpet keeping him from falling through entirely. He trod gently into the bedroom and saw that the sheets had rotted off the bed and the contents of the wardrobe had fallen off their hangers into a soggy mass. As he called to Baker to turn off the shower his eyes settled on a badly corroded cartridge that lay on the wet carpet. He looked more closely and found another, then two more. He bent down and prodded one with a pencil he took from his pocket, but it had stuck fast to the carpet.

Hawthorne heard the shower stop. There was a short pause and then Baker spoke, his voice solemn and quavering slightly. "Sir, I think you'd better come and have a look at this."

A steam carriage hissed to a halt and Litefoot and Henri disembarked. Litefoot cleared his throat, "M… Miss Jago, a scene of violence is no place for a lady. It… may be prudent… for you to stay with the car."

Henri looked about, "But what of her?" Henri pointed out a woman dressed in a tweed suit. "She's a woman at the crime scene."

"Th… that's Sergeant Reeves-Latimer, she… she's a policewoman."

"Ah." Henri nodded, "I read of her but…" she contemplated a moment, "Doctor Litefoot, have you not heard the saying 'two heads are better than one'?" Litefoot nodded, unsure as to where this was headed "Well then, surely two heads with two pairs of eyes are better than one head with only one pair of eyes?" Litefoot agreed warily, "So your head and my head with our two pairs of eyes would be better to look for any clues than just one pair?" Litefoot realised that Henri has got the better of him and he happily conceded defeat, there was something about this woman, "So shall we see what we can find?"

Reeves-Latimer greeted them and escorted them upstairs where Litefoot and Henri looked around curiously at the decayed room and walked carefully on a floor that now undulated where the floorboards had partially collapsed. Hawthorne had already tasked one officer to cutting out the squares of carpet that had the cartridges corroded to them.

Litefoot removed his hat and scratched the back of his head when he saw the mess. "How long has the shower been running?"

"We think about a year," Hawthorne approached, "Doctor Litefoot. Who is this?"

"I… Inspector Hawthorne, may I introduce my secretary Miss Henrietta Jago?" Litefoot turned to Henri, "Miss Henrietta Jago; Inspector Sherlock Hawthorne."

Hawthorne took Henri's hand and kissed it, "Miss Jago."

Henri nods her head, "Inspector, 'Sherlock' as in the Great Detective?"

Hawthorne groaned with the weariness at having being asked many times before, each time by someone who thinks they are the first. "Yes Miss Jago, but _I_ came first." He turned to Litefoot, "As I said Doctor, we have every reason to believe that the shower has been running for at least a year."

It posed severe problems. Hawthorne detailed the Reeves-Latimer to sort through the heap of mail – private letters, most seemed to be official correspondence, invitations to functions or pleas for charitable donations and dozens of love letters, too – brief amours hastily cast aside if the different handwriting styles were an indication. The oldest postmark dated back almost a year, which seemed to verify what they had been told.

"Inspector Hawthorne," asked Henri, shaking her head sadly, "what's going on?"

"Sergeant, if you please?"

Reeves-Latimer gratefully left the pile of post and took them to the bathroom, finding a safe passage over the rotten floorboards, "A body in the shower, probably been dead about a year."

"A year, but-" Then Doctor Litefoot saw the body. "Not much for me to work on, is there?"

"Not really."

The supposed corpse was not much of a corpse. Since the body had been in a shower for nearly a year the flesh had been quite literally washed down the drain. All that remained of the victim was a yellowish skeleton, held together by hardier pieces of tendon and gristle. Wisps of long pale hair were attached to a small area of scalp on the side of the head against the wall, and the left foot, which was the only part of the body outside the oversize shower basin showed signs of fungal growth.

"The shower was on when you found her?"

"Yes, witness reports suggest the shower has been running for a year or more." Then something registered, "Wait 'her', the victim _was_ female?"

"Well it is a female skeleton, mid-thirties at a guess, not far off six foot tall given the dimensions, but pelvic structure implies a female victim and that foot, despite the fungus," he blushed slightly, "Has the look of a woman's foot rather than that of a man. But this is what interests me." He pointed at the small collection of lead bullets that lay scattered beneath the corpse. They had dropped from the body as the surrounding tissue rotted away, but were too heavy to be moved by the water. Litefoot handed Henri a notebook and indicated she should note the position of one, before he fished about in his Gladstone for a pair of forceps with which to pick it up for closer scrutiny.

"Looks like a .32, and there are .32 cartridges scattered all over the carpet..." Henri could not believe the change in the Doctor. Gone once more was the nervous fellow who could barely look at her above the knee and flushed every time he spoke. In his place was a highly focused and professional forensic examiner. It was an amazing transformation. "Any idea as to who the victim was?" He asked without looking up.

Reeves-Latimer fishes in her notebook, "We think her name is Connie or Carrie Simpson, aged thirty-four and a missing person – reported missing by her sister Samantha a year ago and her neighbour Marian Wilkins."

"I thought she said 'Wilmore'."

"Thank you _Constable_, Marian Wilmore." Reeves-Latimer turned her notebook to a fresh page and pulled a pencil from her jacket pocket, "Do I need to ask how she died?"

Litefoot sighed, "Not really," he pointed with a pencil, "One shot grazed the lowest rib just here but was not fatal; another bullet that shattered the ulna indicates that she had raised his arm in an attempt to protect herself. There is another slug lodged in the hip joint, which probably caused her to fall over, and the last two were fired to kill her instantly. One lodged in the side of the skull and the other nicked her rib."

The policewoman hastily scribbled this down, "How do you know two shots were fired to kill her off?" Henri asked, impressed by the deduction until she remembered that a poor woman had been murdered, and turned away in shocked embarrassment.

Litefoot half-smiled in response to the query and with a flourish drew back the shower curtain. It had three bullet holes at abdomen height and then two much lower down.

Henri looked down in the doorway and then back at the holes, she looked thoughtful for a moment before moving out into the main room and stood just outside the bathroom door facing the shower. The ejected shell cases had been found there, so it was a fair bet that this was where the shots had been fired from. "So they fire from here three times, hear the poor woman slump in the shower, move in and shoot twice more?" She asked.

Litefoot turned and Reeves-Latimer looked marginally annoyed. "I would say that's about the size of it." He sighed and stared down at the body. "Seems hard to believe that a shower could be run for a year, did none of the neighbours complain?"

"Next-door neighbour did, this Wilmore woman, but it was never acted on. She complained, but they ignored her. No one lives below. It's a mess down there too; the damp has got into everything." Reeves-Latimer studied her notebook, "So, the assailant fires five times," she moved towards the doorway, "There are no powder burns on the curtain so they must have travelled some distance. Given the fact that three spent casings where found here and they seem to have been fired three times at the height of what on the average woman," She suggested Henri and herself with her pencil, "would be around here?" she indicated the chest area and looked to Litefoot who half-nodded, his face reddening. "But on the victim happens to be lower – top of her abdomen." Litefoot nodded again, "The victim slumped and the move in to make sure of the kill." Henri paled at the almost callous disregard, but said nothing.

Litefoot nodded, "The victim would have bled to death in time – especially with the flow of water, but…"

"The assailant executed her with two shots to her head?"

Litefoot closed his eyes and nodded. "That is about right."

Reeves-Latimer was deep in thought when a constable approached and threw a parade-ground salute, "Sorry to interrupt ma'am. Miss Wilmore has furnished us with a sketch of the man who ran yesterday."

"She did? Well?" She held out her hand, "Hand it over constable." The intimidated constable handed over the sheet of paper and beat a hasty retreat. "Well it's one lead I suppose." Reeves-Latimer handed the sketch over to Litefoot who in turn handed it to Henri.

She gasped, "I know this man." Henri pointed to the image, "He supplies our theatre; it's Bertrand Wooster."

5. Dead Man Walking

The interior of the steam car was silent bar the hiss of the engine and the road noise until Reeves-Latimer broke the contemplative mood, "So 'theatre' then," she sighed, "You are not the Doctor's secretary are you?" her eyes narrowed as she studied Henri. "So what is your connection to all this?"

Henri looked at the other woman for a moment, pondering whether to try and bluster her way out, "Merely a coincidence, my father – a friend of Doctor Litefoot's father – is missing. I was reporting this when your Inspector called him here. I accompanied the Doctor," she looked to a highly embarrassed Litefoot, "purely to continue our discussion." Henri looked to the floor and whispers, "I never meant to get him into trouble."

Reeves-Latimer groaned, "Look when we get back to the station, _I_ will take down the details of your father's disappearance and see how things go from there. Until then, please leave the police work to professionals." She started to write in her notebook.

Henri nodded and looked out of the window, "I know where we are. Wooster's is just down this street."

The policewoman looked up from writing, "Really, where?"

"Next… left I think."

The policewoman pivoted in her seat and opened the small hatch in the partition between passenger cabin and the driver, "Take the next left, might as well strike while the iron's hot so to speak."

"Yes ma'am." The constable driving turned the car down the indicated road as the constable in the passenger seat steadied himself and his cargo of evidence from the Hampton Road crime scene.

"Here it is, Wooster's Costumiers." Henri smiled, more internally than to the others, "Thought so."

Reeves-Latimer moved to get out of the car, "Congratulations. Now Miss Jago, Doctor Litefoot if you will stay here. This should only take a few minutes." She and the second constable went to the closed double doors of the costumiers and rapped sharply on the wood. "Mister Wooster, this is the Police!"

Litefoot was sat staring at his hands mentally writing his report Henri surmised. She turned to survey the street, largely clear of pedestrians and traffic when a movement in a window of Wooster's caught her eye. A moment later a male figure clad in a long cloak burst through the door, splintering it and the frame, and knocking Reeves-Latimer off her feet. With a single stride from the middle of the front garden he cleared both the garden gate and the car, landing in the street in front of a second police car that swerved violently and struck a lamppost. The then ran off down the road in a series of large, powerful, inhuman strides. Reeves-Latimer signalled for the driver to chase after the absconder. He started the car and tore off in pursuit.

The vehicle accelerated rapidly, the steam car's engine howling enthusiastically. The miscreant was running up the middle of the road at an incredible rate; the car was hitting thirty and still was failing to catch up. The target did not stop at the next road junction and the driver chanced it likewise. While the offender was lucky, the police car was less so. A car was approaching the junction crossways at speed with right-of-way and clipped the car in the rear, causing them to career sideways; the driver over-corrected and slewed the other way, bouncing along a row of parked cars with the sound of tearing metal and the clatter of broken and splintering wood as Henri screamed and Litefoot tried to shield her body. The driver yanked the steering levers hard over and recovered, dropped down a gear and floored the accelerator as the assailant ran off around the corner.

The police driver cornered hard, the tyres screeching in protest as they desperately tried to cling on to the asphalt and cobbles. The cloaked figure ducked down an alley and the driver followed, oblivious to any damage that he might possibly inflict on the car. The police car clipped a bollard on the way in and bent a suspension arm; the car vibrated violently as it turned left towards a block of garages and drove over a low brick wall that tore the offside front wheel off, shattered the windscreen and ripped off the front doors. The car slammed to a halt on the rubble of the demolished wall, catapulting the driver through the shards of glass straight into a wall. The engine died with a shudder. Litefoot chanced a look to the front of the vehicle. Ahead of him, the figure had stopped running and just stood there, regarding with detached curiosity the wreck of the car teetering on the broken masonry. There was an unnatural silence after the sudden excitement; the only sounds to be heard were the hiss of the cracked furnace, water gushing from the ruptured tank, slopping across the road causing the hot, burning coals to fizz and spit noisily as they were doused and the tic-tic-tic of the engine as it cooled.

There was a low, almost bestial growl from the offender as he plucked Litefoot through the buckled rear doorframes despite Henri's efforts. Litefoot finally caught a proper look at the figure they had been following, "Malcolm?"

McGeehan's flesh was grey and necrotic, peeling away around the dark pits of his eye sockets, into which two bizarre, mechanical devices, almost makeshift yet somehow precision-made, had been inserted to replace his eyes. His jawbone was exposed at the base of his right cheek, where a hunk of skin had been ripped away, either during a ferocious encounter, or simply due to the fact that it had rotted and sloughed away. The rest of his skin was pitted and raw, pink fluid seeped from open sores around his nose. Litefoot was aghast. The sight of McGeehan's rotting, cadaverous face was the image of a horrifying monster – half-alive and half-dead – with a steely grimace betraying a strong sense of purpose. Inside there, behind those cold, glowing eyes, a cool intelligence still lurked and the thought of it made Litefoot shudder. Then there was the smell, the stench of the man was near unbearable.

McGeehan's voice, when he spoke, was a grating, metallic whine. Every word was like a fragment of song, and Litefoot had the sense that, somehow, it was being artificially induced. It sounded as if it were being squeezed from a clutch of miniature organ pipes in his throat, like a chorus of a hundred people all speaking the same words at once. But there was no emotion in it, no sense of the man McGeehan had once been. The sound seemed to echo from a wheezing vent in his chest. It was cold and inhuman, just like the man himself. "Cease and desist, Captain Litefoot. I do not want to hurt you." He stepped cautiously over the rubble and broken body of the deceased constable as if prowling. Litefoot looked around, "_Miss Jago,_" he noted to himself, "_at least has the good sense to remain in the car_". During the chase, McGeehan's long cloak had become torn, further revealing, momentarily as he moved around, the horrifying figure it harboured underneath.

Litefoot gasped in shock, "My God! What did they do to you?" The words seemed to catch in his throat for he knew, now, the origin of that detestable stench. McGeehan was less than half the man he had once been, less than half the human being he had once been. His body had been ravaged, reassembled from a shocking assortment of flesh and brass, like a patchwork monster made real, a nightmare marriage of metal and blood. What flesh there still was, clinging to his brass exoskeleton was rotten and decaying, sloughing away in great hunks. In places, large patches of leather had been stitched indelicately to this remaining flesh in an attempt to give some semblance of skin, but had succeeded only in exacerbating the monstrous appearance of the man. Litefoot had no idea whether this was a part of the original design or not. It mattered not; the result was grotesque.

The man's torso was perhaps the most disturbing aspect of all. The exposed skin of his chest was puckered and pustulant around a large glass porthole that filled the space where his ribcage had once resided. In the murky depths it revealed, Litefoot could see the grey muscle of the man's heart, beating in time with a flickering electrical charge that shocked it repeatedly at intervals, like the precise ticking of a clock. Fluid burbled and bubbled along four clear pipes that sprouted, like giant follicles, from his shoulders, curling around the back of his head and disappearing into the depths of his skull. The brown, murky liquid appeared to be pumped around his brain cavity by a further device buried deep inside his chest. His face was just as alarming. The tiny lenses of his eyes flicked back and forth over Litefoot, the red lights glowing in the darkness. When he opened his mouth, Litefoot saw that his teeth had decayed to black stumps. What hair was left was hung in long, straggling clumps, and the flesh of his scalp was torn, revealing the horrific juxtaposition of yellowed bone and metal plating underneath.

Litefoot shuddered. So this was the disgusting genius of prostheses replacement, taken to its extreme. He pitied the man, despite himself and despite his actions. Litefoot had no idea how McGeehan could go on living like this. It was a form of waking torture, that every minute his intellect should be housed in this wreckage of a frame, this parody of a human body. No wonder the man had been driven insane. Litefoot was amazed it had not happened sooner. Indeed, he felt a kind of sickening sympathy for the man, an understanding of the desperation that had led him to this point. He had evidently been revived since that dusk in Newcastle last year and his life had been extended beyond the point of death, certainly, but Litefoot doubted it was a life worth living; the pain and hardship he must have suffered since his resurrection would have driven any man insane.

McGeehan lunged forwards toward the beached car and began to choke the life from the doctor. "During my time under the knife of Ivanov, I swore I would do unspeakable things to you for leaving me in his claws," he whispered in Litefoot's ear, the unholy stench of cooked bone and burned blood almost overpowering, "I'm not going to though."

"Why not?" grunted Litefoot.

McGeehan looked up and his 'eyes' refocused on some distant object "I have my orders which must be obeyed without question at all times." McGeehan's eyepieces refocused on the doctor, "But I can still _hurt_ you." He lifted Litefoot up as though he weighed nothing at all and threw him bodily through the wooden doors of a nearby garage. McGeehan smiled and with a short run and a single leap cleared a nearby wall, then ran through the next five gardens as though they were a series of hurdles, vanishing into the distance.

Henri struggled out of the car and made her way to Litefoot, herself limping slightly following the impact. "Are you all right?" Litefoot sat up among the remains of the garage doors and blinked. He rubbed his neck and winced as his fingers discovered a painful cut at the back of his head.

"I will be – thank you." He looked about himself, "What of our driver?"

The first of the police cars arrived minutes later as Litefoot emerged from the garage. It had been empty, which was perhaps just as well.

"Where did he go, sir?" asked Reeves-Latimer.

"He is long gone," murmured Litefoot, leaning on a corner of the shattered car, "There is nothing here but a dead constable," he pointed to the crumpled form of the driver slumped against a wall above a spreading pool of congealing blood, "and a bruised doctor."

"You look as though someone just threw you through a door." Hawthorne said without any sense of irony.

"Oddly enough," said Litefoot stretching his aching spine, "That's exactly what he did." He indicated the splintered doors across the alleyway.

Reeves-Latimer gasped as realisation of events sank in. She started to arrange a search pattern in nearby streets but Hawthorne was not confident of success. Nor was Litefoot, he had seen McGeehan run at speeds in excess of thirty miles an hour and when he paused, he had not even been out of breath. If McGeehan was truly running away then he could be miles away.

"What did you find at Wooster's, if you do not mind me asking?" Henri moved over to stand beside Litefoot.

Hawthorne took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Wooster is missing, his secretary…" he turned grey, "we found his secretary with her arms ripped out her sockets, bled to death." Henri looked queasy. "Our runner-"

"M… M… McGeehan, Malcolm McGeehan. We," Litefoot shook his head, "served at the same army hospital in Newcastle during the war. He has– had a wife and two sons."

Hawthorne rubbed his mouth and nose, "This McGeehan ransacked Wooster's after killing his secretary. Beg your pardon Miss. Your visit disturbed him and he ran." Hawthorne looks Litefoot over, "I think you had better see a doctor, doctor." He alone laughed at this, "I'll make arrangements for a car to take you home, Miss Jago."

Henri smiled weakly, "Thank you Inspector. But if Doctor Litefoot will permit, I will accompany him to the hospital?"

Litefoot looked queasier than Henri did at the news of Miss Wormwood's demise. "If… if you insist."

"Yes. I do." Henri looked to the police, "If you will excuse us Inspector?"

Hawthorne nodded as Reeves-Latimer approached. Before Henri could overhear what was being said, one of the police steam-cars pulled alongside to take Litefoot to the nearest hospital.

_Saint Cedd's Community Hospital, Limehouse_

"Why Miss Jago isn't it? What befalls you to be here?"

Henri looked up from her study of her gloved hands, "Mister Madsen?" She looked about the otherwise deserted waiting room, "An ac- a friend of my acquaintance was injured about the head whilst," she paused for a deep a breathy sigh, "acting for the police."

"Oh… is she badly injured?" Despite the dark lensed glasses still present, concern was etched on his face. Henri, now in a position to study the man's face a bit closer than the day before, noticed pucker marks and the healed and partly concealed scars of terrible scratches across the right side of his face, beneath the dark glasses and that Madsen seemed to be missing the little finger and outer part of his right hand.

"I do not know, but perhaps not since hewas not too injured at the scene." She paled, "But there was such a lot of blood."

Madsen wheeled his chair closer to the young woman, and offered reassurance, "Well Professor Litefoot isn't here, but Doctor Windburn is a fine medical practioner. Even for a girl." He realises his _faux pas_, "No disrespect meant Miss Jago it's…" He trailed off.

Henri smiled sadly and gave a little laugh, "I am sure if that is the worst said about Doctor Windburn then she would be quite happy."

"I would be ecstatic." Madsen and Henri turned to face the new arrival. She was dressed in a conservative, charcoal-grey suit with floor-length skirt, and her dark brown hair cascaded over her shoulders just loosed from a bun. Her dark, piercing eyes tapering to the outside belying some Oriental heritage in her ancestry. "As well you know Sergeant Madsen," she tutted with indignation.

Madsen smiled as he clamped his hands in prayer, looking up to Windburn, "Please dear lady forgive me? 'Tis the mechanics, they do summit awful to me poor grey cells. I know not what I say."

Windburn could not control her humour, she laughed. "Where else would you go for your regular services?" She turned to Henri, and offered her hand "You must be Miss Jago", Henri stood and the two women shook hands. "Eddie said he had been accompanied by a friend," she cleared her throat, "must admit, I did not entirely believe him."

Despite the fact this woman and Doctor Litefoot had obviously known each other for some time, Henri felt jealousy tinted with outright annoyance. She gritted her teeth and looked behind Windburn to Litefoot; with his wounds cleaned and dressed he more resembled his former neatness despite the dried and matted blood on his shirt and collar. "Is Doctor Litefoot fine?"

Windburn looked at Litefoot and smiled, "Few scratches and abrasions, three stitches to his neck, that's all he needed." She turned back to Henri coolly, "If you plan on pushing him through another wooden door, just open it first."

Henri bristled and snapped. "It was a suspect in two murder cases!"

Windburn raised her hands in a placatory gesture, "It was an attempt at humour. I meant no offence."

Litefoot coughed, "I am sure you did not Eliza, it is just that Miss Jago's father has gone missing and she is – as I hope you understand – rather concerned."

Madsen looked back to Henri, "Henry's missing? When did this happen?"

Henri looked to her father's friend, "I am sorry Mister Madsen, I forgot you know father. When mother and I returned from that talk yesterday afternoon… there had been signs of a struggle and father was nowhere to be seen. We waited for him to return but…" tears began to well in her eyes, "He did not return last night. No one seems to have seen him and Doctor Litefoot was kind enough to help me but now he has been injured and…" she started sobbing, "I don't know what to do anymore."

Litefoot and Madsen were embarrassed by the display of emotion; leaving it to Windburn to comfort Henri. She slipped an arm about Henri's shoulders and offered a handkerchief to the younger woman as she led her to a seat. "I am so sorry Miss Jago. Sometimes we doctors have to… detach ourselves emotionally." She leant in to whisper, "Especially we women doctors in the presence of men," she pulled away slightly. "I am sure your father will turn up alive and well. Eddie – despite his nervousness – is a fine doctor and true friend. If he said he will help, he will stop at nothing to do so."

Henri's tears ceased as she dabbed at her eyes, "I apologise Doctor-"

"Elizabeth, please."

"Henrietta." Henri smiled weakly, "I am normally very good at coping with events. It is just that…" she trailed off, "With father's disappearance, and seeing the skeleton of that poor woman," Henri was oblivious to the questioning look Windburn fires at Litefoot, who nodded reluctantly, "and seeing that… horrid creature who did this to Doctor Litefoot _and_ who murdered another woman…"

Windburn exhaled slowly, "It is just reaction to a shocking sequence of events." She studied the other woman for a moment, "The best thing is to get plenty of rest." She looked to Litefoot and Madsen who are deep in conversation, "Eddie? Could you escort Miss Jago to her lodgings?"

Litefoot nodded "D… did you really think I would do otherwise?"

Windburn turned back to address Henri, "Is there someone there for company?"

Henri nodded, "Yes, mother should be there." She stood to leave as her tears dried.

Windburn smiled softly, "Wait a moment," She unlocked and entered a small dispensary and returned with a small blue glass phial. "This is a preparation to help you sleep tonight should you need it."

"Thank you Doctor."

"Quite alright," Windburn looked to Litefoot and Madsen, "Now Eddie, no over-exertion. You do not want to tear _those_ stitches."

Litefoot nodded and grimaced with the pain and discomfort, "Yes doctor."

"If you want, I can drive you – my car is just outside…"

"Thank you William," Litefoot gingerly placed his hat on his head, "but the police car should still be outside."

Madsen nodded, "Very well, but Edison…" Litefoot leant closer as Madsen beckoned him down, "Once you have left Miss Jago, I believe I have some information that might be of interest to you. I will see you back at the Yard. You know where my office is, don't you?"

"Yes. I will see you there in an hour."

_Scotland Yard_

Madsen wheeled his chair to face Litefoot as he removed his dark glasses. His ruby-glass fronted mechanical right eye refocused on the doctor. His other eye continued to twitch nervously. "I believe I know more of the identity of your mysterious dead man."

"Go on."

"His name seems to have been Mortimus – though he was often called 'Monk' for some reason and for a time went by the name 'Khemosiri'. This Mortimus appears to have seen himself as an Osiris individual. You do know the story of Osiris, don't you?"

Litefoot looked pensive. "I think so – was Osiris the King of the Dead?"

"Not quite," Madsen pulls an open book from the nearby desk, "Osiris was the Egyptian king of the _Land_ of the Dead. He stood in judgement over the dead, having supplanted the god Anubis as the overseer of the afterlife. To an Ancient Egyptian noble, the afterlife was everything: the chance to live forever beyond the physical world. Osiris was the god who straddled the two realms, who ultimately decided their fate. He enabled their resurrection after mummification." Madsen paused as he collected his tongs and poured himself another measure of a pink liquid from a decanter on the desk. He nursed the coffee cup in his hands as he continued. "Osiris was unique in the Egyptian pantheon, however. The myth tells of how he was murdered by his brother, Set, first drowned and then cut into thirteen pieces and scattered throughout Egypt. Osiris's wife, Isis, was able to find twelve of these parts; however, and with a singing spell she learned from her father she was able to effect a resurrection. The lovers enjoyed congress, in which their son, Horus, was conceived, and shortly after Osiris died once again and became king of the Land of the Dead."

"Fascinating: a resurrection spell," Litefoot rubs his nose and makes a note, "So de Salem's mummy was this Mortimus chap?"

"Well, if it is indeed him. Mortimus has long been considered apocryphal, a barely-remembered footnote in history; a cautionary tale, if you will, to ensure adherence to the core belief system of rebirth in the afterlife." Madsen wheeled across the room to a neat row of books, and pulled out a leather-bound volume. He flicked through it purposefully, and then, finding the page he was looking for, crossed the room and handed it to Litefoot. "Here. This is the only contemporary reference to Mortimus that survives."

Litefoot examined the page. It was a copy of a long document written in hieratic script. The accompanying footnote explained it was the record of the trial of a priest, found in the tomb of a Persian noble at the turn of the century. Litefoot handed the book back to Madsen. "What does it say?"

"It basically sets out the case against a priest in neighbouring Persia – which at the time of the trial was under the control and belief system of Egypt, who is accused of blasphemous behaviour, for attempting to extend his life in the physical world and avoid the judgement of Osiris. It claims he had perfected a ritual by which to achieve this longevity, but records of the actual ritual are lost. There is reference to an altar and gem that are required but…" Madsen shrugged. "It seems this particular priest either was not a true believer in the eternal resurrection of the spirit or," he grinned, "he didn't want to give up all his earthly possessions."

Litefoot smiled. "So what happened? What makes you think there is any connection between this story and the mummy now in de Salem's collection? Especially since de Salem seems to be under the impression that the poor devil was called 'Khemosiri'."

"Ah… well that is due to the punishments that were enacted upon Mortimus, and the description of the casket in _The Times_. The document here lists the horrifying sequence of measures that were carried out to ensure that the priest suffered a very full and real death, in both the physical world and the afterlife. He was essentially obliterated from history." Madsen looked up at the sound of the kettle whistling on the stove. He set the book down on the arm of Litefoot's chair and made his way over to where he had laid out a teacup and strainer.

Litefoot picked up the book and looked at the cover, "This is from the Arcana collection of the British Library! It is not _meant_ to leave the premises."

Madsen ignored Litefoot's protestations and continued talking as he worked on the drink. "First of all, the man was stripped of his true name, and all records of this name were purged, from his house, his family, and his temple. They even destroyed a royal stele that mentioned the priest by name. No stone was left unturned. Without a name, it was held that a soul was not permitted to cross into the afterlife, you see – sort of like unbaptised babies today. It was only after his death that others began to refer to the now nameless man as Khemosiri – the 'dark Osiris', for wishing to circumvent the Final Judgement. It was punishable by death to utter his true name but word-of-mouth passed it down as Mortimus and was recorded as late as the twelfth century when the supposed last vestiges of his cult were wiped out during the crusades."

Madsen coughed loudly, fetched around for his pouch of tobacco – which he found amongst the flasks and vials on the workbench – and began rolling himself a cigarette. Then, after allowing the tea a sufficient time to brew, he handed Litefoot his cup of Earl Grey, the cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth. "Next he was sentenced to be mummified alive, his body preserved as a warning to those who may have been harbouring similar notions or persuasions."

Litefoot shook his head. "You should see the expression on his face, William. It was like nothing I have ever seen before. He must have suffered terribly."

"I don't doubt it." Madsen's face was grim. "You know what they did during the mummification process?"

"Yes, I am well aware of the procedure." Litefoot frowned. "Unfortunately I can imagine what they did to the poor devil."

Madsen groaned in vague agreement as he drank, "Well parts of the process were necessarily – overlooked – to maintain life; the scrambling and removal of the brain, the extraction of organs and so on. But that was not the end of it. The list goes on. It was decreed that once the priest's name had been erased and the mummification process was complete, a curse was to be written upon the linen bandages that covered his body, and he was to be interred in a black and gold casket, which itself would be painted with wards and warnings. His tomb would then be stricken from records and hidden at an undisclosed location in the deep desert so that thieves would not accidentally stumble upon the cursed remains."

Litefoot sat forward in his chair. "That matches the description of the mummy almost perfectly. I think you are right. I think you have our man. How the devil did you put your finger on it?"

Madsen grinned. His glass-fronted eye shimmered in the harsh electrical light of the orb. "A half-remembered tale is all. The talk by Miss Connelly – where I met Miss Jago as it so happens – provoked a memory. An afternoon in the archives of the British Library where I – found – this book," he patted the volume he had been referring to, "Today's report in _The Times _of the unwrapping and, upon rereading the hieratic script, realised Khemosiri was this Mortimus."

"I wonder why de Salem and the others have not made the connection."

"As I said, Khemosiri or Mortimus is a footnote, a reference in a long-forgotten document that most professionals would dismiss as naught but fiction. Only those with a deep interest in the more esoteric records would place any value in such a story, and not for its historic significance, either."

Litefoot looked doubtful. "What? You believe Mortimus really did find a means of extending life beyond the natural span of a man?"

Madsen laughed. "Of course not, I believe that _he_ believed he had. And others believed him, too – the Pharaoh, of course, and the priests that committed him to such a terrible fate. But more than that, he was said to have a coterie of followers, others who subscribed to his beliefs, who aided him in his bizarre practices. When the military men purged his home, they found no records, no trace of the so-called 'Iris Ritual', his fabled altar or jade sphere. No one knows for certain, but it was thought that his followers had secured his secrets and 'other magics', and that they were buried with him, hidden, somehow, inside his tomb that had once been his temple." Madsen paused and pulled over another – much thinner volume, "There is record of some of these 'magics' – a sceptre that could rend or join metal, set fires and emit the 'scream of the most unholy evils', a device for capturing voices amongst others. While the last sounds like a recording and playback device of some form, the sceptre is a mystery. It was believed to have surfaced in the twelfth century but…" Madsen closes the thin volume. "His followers planned to resurrect him, to give Mortimus new life, just as the original Osiris had been brought back from the dead by his beloved Isis. But most of that is nothing but speculation and myth. We have no proof either way."

"Other than a corpse that proves that they did not achieve their goal."

Madsen laughed. "Quite so," he took a long draw on his cigarette, watching the smoke plume lazily around him as he exhaled. "Not the point I was getting at, though."

Litefoot nodded contemplatively. "Indeed. I understood your reasoning. If there were others who believed in the ritual then, there may be others who believe in the ritual now."

Madsen nodded, "Exactly so. The first and perhaps most prudent course of action would be to visit Lord de Salem. It is possible he may have been approached by those looking for the secrets of the ritual. I doubt very much that de Salem himself had an understanding of what he'd found."

"No. He didn't." Litefoot leaned back in the chair, resting his chin on his fist, his mind filled with questions; "_How did McGeehan enter into this?_ _What of Sir Charles Havelock's evident involvement? Mister Jago's disappearance was too sudden to be considered mere coincidence_." It was impossible to second-guess McGeehan's motives. He had spent the last year living a half-life somewhere, resuscitated and kept alive by the machines 'Ivanov' installed inside his broken body. Had he spent the time looking for ways to regain the life he had once had, turning to the occult in desperation? Perhaps he thought this "Resurrection Ritual" would somehow restore his body to its former state or perhaps this real-life Modern Prometheus was simply doing someone else's bidding. Only finding him and bringing him in would provide Litefoot with the answers. Hopefully it would also lead to Henri's father. Litefoot looked across at Madsen "Do you know of anyone else who might have a notion of this link? Between de Salem's Khemosiri and the tale of Mortimus, I mean."

Madsen looked thoughtful. He considered his answer for a moment. "There is only Sir Charles Havelock, after all he did fund an expedition to the area three years ago, but he has been a recluse these last few years. But I can think of no other, in London, at least, who would have access to the necessary texts. Not the sort of thing one would happen across in an academic journal or the drum memory machines!" He paused, rapping his knuckles on the workbench. "You might consider discussing the matter with Allyn Connelly, one of the men who aided de Salem during the expedition. I doubt he could give you anything new, but I understand he and his niece Eleanor have an appetite for all things mystical."

Litefoot swallowed at the thought of meeting yet another woman, but was intrigued by the new connections. "Indeed?" That certainly shed a different light on the man he had seen practically deferring to de Salem during the unrolling party. Though, now he thought of it, Mannheim had said Connelly disagreed with the public unwrapping. Perhaps here was a valid reason to visit de Salem and Connelly. He downed the remains of his tea and placed the empty cup and saucer on the workbench. "Thank you, William. You have been of great service today."

The other man chuckled, sprinkling the ash from the end of his cigarette carelessly onto the floor. "Never any trouble, old man," He sighed. "There is one thing you could do for me, though."

"Name it."

"Can I see it?"

Litefoot smiled, "I will ask Lord de Salem myself." Madsen nodded in appreciation. Litefoot stood, collecting his coat and hat when there was a hiss from the pneumatic tubes and an internal mail capsule deposited itself on Madsen's workbench. "Thank you once again, I can find my own way out."

"Hold up." He fumbled with the capsule. "I may come so far with you." He scan read the sheet of paper before handing it to Litefoot. "Maybe de Salem won't be able to help after all."

Litefoot read the brief typed memo. "To all officers: Lord Henry de Salem found dead. Circumstances match the Wooster scene of crime." Litefoot swallowed hard, "Latest artefacts stolen. Be on look-out."

"There is something more to this than some obscure ritual, isn't there?" Madsen snorted, and fumbled with his tobacco pouch, intent on rolling himself another cigarette.

"It certainly looks that way." Litefoot pulled his coat closed, "Thank you once more William." And bracing himself for the cold clicked the inner door shut behind him and took his leave. He looked up into the remarkable clear sky and the scintillating stars. "B… better see father." Litefoot headed off to home to converse with his father.

_South Camberwell_

Edison stepped hurriedly up the short path to his father's house; the lights were out, the house in darkness. His father had moved here from Ranskill Gardens little under two years ago after his previous residence had been invaded by Chinese thugs. Despite reassurances, his father never felt entirely secure after that, hence the move south of the river. With advances in the underground rail network, the commute was not too strenuous. Yet it now appeared that even this more prestigious district was not immune. Litefoot felt the bile rise as he realised that the front door was ajar. He picked up the pace and ran into the house.

Of his father there was no sign, there appeared no sign of a struggle but that did little to sooth the worry. If anything, it made matters worse. "Doctor Litefoot?"

Litefoot whirled around; standing in the open doorway was a middle-aged woman in a dark overcoat and matching hat, "Mrs Hudson?"

Professor Litefoot's housekeeper looked mortified, "Professor Litefoot gave me the evening off. I… left him here with Mister Jago."

"When was this?" Litefoot's mind started to correlate the information, "Mister Jago went missing yesterday."

Mrs Hudson stammered, "This afternoon." She placed her handbag on the seat, "Mister Jago came around this morning. It… it looked as though he had been set about by a gang of toughs." Mrs Hudson removed her coat. "Your father – the Professor – sent me away." She shook her head, "I should have been here."

Litefoot swallowed, "T… then Mrs Hudson, w… whatever befell my father and Mister Jago may have befallen you too."

Mrs Hudson nodded sagely. "I believe you are right." She headed to put her coat and hat away. "Would you like a cup of tea or are you going to inform the police?"

Litefoot looked to his soiled clothing, "I… believe the later – once I have changed." He waved a hand over his shirtfront, "The… they might think I am involved."

"Oh Doctor Litefoot," she notices the mess of his shirt for the first time, "Whatever happened to you?"

Litefoot gave her a brief précis of the adventures before heading upstairs and changing. Within minutes, he was out of the front door, heading to the police station again.

6. Shaydes and Apparitions

_Palace Theatre, Limehouse_

The following morning Litefoot arrived at the Palace Theatre, unsure but hoping that Miss Jago is there. Although he had spent virtually all of the previous day in her company, he had no idea where she resided or how to contact her. He assumed that someone at the theatre might know how to get in touch with her. He raps on the stage door with his knuckles.

The door was opened by a skinny Irish stagehand, "Top o' the mornin' to y' squire." He smiled, "The boss ain't here at t' moment. But if y' want t' see someone in charge, 'is daughter is in."

Litefoot felt one weight lifted. "Would it be possible to see her please?" McFlinagan nodded, and allowed the doctor ingress. "Thank you." Litefoot was shown into the theatre and to the manager's office. Behind the desk, sat Henri writing out a list, she looked up and smiled warmly.

"Doctor Litefoot!" She stood in greeting, "It is so good to see you. I do hope you forgive me for my actions yesterday at the hospital."

Litefoot took her hand in his, "Of course Miss Jago. There is nothing to forgive." He offered a smile. "I… hope you for… forgive me for endangering you."

Henri let out a little laugh, "Shall we just agree to forgive each other," She smiled warmly, "and call it quits?

Litefoot nodded, "Yes that sounds ideal."

Henri smiled and beckoned Litefoot to sit. "So what brings you here Doctor? Have you news on father?"

Litefoot looked down guiltily, "Only that he was with _my_ father yesterday afternoon."

Henri brightened, "Yesterday afternoon?" She sensed something amiss, "Is he…? Are they fine?"

Litefoot closed his eyes and shook his head sadly, "I do not know. When I got to father's home last night, they had gone – it… it looked as though there had been a struggle. I thought that…." He trailed off highly embarrassed. Henri looked very worried, "we… might adjourn to the station and try to…"

Henri realised what the doctor was trying to say, and was quite enchanted by him but was suddenly struck by a change, "Doctor Litefoot, if you do not mind me asking, are you quite feeling yourself?"

Litefoot blinked, "I believe so Miss Jago, why? Does something about me seem – off to you?"

Henri rubbed her hands together nervously, "Yes… no, not… it is…" she took a deep breath. "From the moment we met, you have hardly been able to bring yourself to say two words to me together without stuttering and blushing. Yet," her face belied a worried sensation, "today, you seem far more confident, more composed..." She shook her head, "I am neither complaining nor criticising, merely concerned about the apparent change."

Litefoot looked to the floor and exhaled slowly. "Miss Jago, you will think me insane but you have a right to know. My mother died when I was but a child of seven. She fell from the balcony of our home in Bombay. 'Tragic accident' it was called." He looked up embarrassed before returning his gaze to the floor. "I had little memory of her and no memory of what she looked like."

Henri felt incredbily guilty as though she is prying into something deep-rooted and highly personal, but failed to see the connection. "I am sorry. I have no wish to make you uncomfortable."

Litefoot let out a slight, nervous laugh. "I am told it can be cathartic to tell someone if you are willing to listen?" He looked up with sad eyes, Henri swallowed and they share a smile of friendship. "For years I have had… a dream visitor when events trouble me. For years I knew this visitor only as some mysterious woman dressed in blue and maroon with a blurred face. Then yesterday, when I was looking in father's desk for any possible references to his whereabouts, I found a photograph I had never seen before. A photograph of my mother, taken days before she fell from the balcony, dressed in blue and maroon – the same as the woman in my dreams. Last night, my visitor – my mother came to me again but I could not discern her intent. There was a blue crystal into which I felt my very self was falling." He paused, "Then there was the release of sleep – even within a dream." He looked to Henri with worried eyes, "When I awoke this morning, troubling as the dream was, I felt that it is my duty to help you through these difficult times, and to do so, I have to shed any hesitations, 'he who hesitates is lost' and all that."

Henri pondered for a moment, "Do not lead, I may not follow. Do not follow, I may not lead. Just walk beside me and be my friend."

Litefoot looked at her a moment, "I... am sorry for any audacity. I have no wish for dominion over you." Despite his earlier words, he flushed crimson. "I would be honoured to be your friend though." The pair shook hands, Litefoot noticed how soft and cool Henri's hand was despite the warmth of the sentiment behind the gesture.

Henri collected her coat and hat, "Before we go to the police station, there is someone who I think you should met, if you are willing. I believe Miss Connelly has some expertise in psychical endeavours…"

Litefoot nodded and thought, "Would this be Eleanor Connelly, niece of Allyn?"

"Why yes Doctor. Do you know her?"

"No, only _of_, her name arose as part of an analysis of another case – that of the Khemosiri mummy."

"Oh." Henri adjusted her coat. "Perhaps though, for the sake of appearances," Litefoot looked slightly worried. "It would be prudent, in public, if we maintain the fiction of me being your assistant?"

Litefoot smiled, "That seems v… very logical." The pair headed for Litefoot's assigned car.

_Connelly residence, Camberwell_

Litefoot drew his steam car up where Henri indicated and the pair alighted. Henri crossed the pavement and approached the front door of the Connelly residence. "Hola Miss Jago," Henri turned to see a woman approaching waving, "I have just posted the book to you. Surely I have not been too slow-moving?" The woman smiled, "Or is this a deputation?"

Eleanor Connelly walked along the pavement and took Henri's hand. "Good morning Miss Connelly. Thank you for the book, but no to both." The two women shake hands. "This," she turned to indicated Litefoot, "is Doctor Litefoot."

"Doctor Litefoot." Litefoot took Connelly's offered hand, kissing the back of it. Henri felt an odd pang of jealousy. "After what we spoke of, I believe that you could help Doctor Litefoot."

"Oh?" Connelly raised an eyebrow, "Really? Perhaps you would like to come in." She opened the front door. "Uncle is at the British Library researching the Khemosiri history. It was quite a shock to hear of Lord de Salem's death."

Henri gasped, "Lord de Salem's dead?"

"Yesterday," Connelly stated in a rather direct manner as she closed the door and removed her coat. "He was found by his housekeeper. Excuse me." She headed down the entrance hallway, "Please," she spoke over her shoulder, "make yourselves at home in the front room."

Henri opened the door, to what appeared to be a form of study, a cluttered, but clearly well-used study. This was a place of work not wiling away wasted hours. A book, _Trelawney's History of Esoteric Societies of the Seventeenth Century _lying open on the desk was one of only many aged, leather-bound volumes that lined the walls around the room. Other shelves held more bizarre specimens; vials of chemical compounds; jars filled with preserved biological samples; a pentagram cast out of twenty-four carat gold; the bleached skull of a chimpanzee besides a dusty cat skeleton and much more besides. Paper files were stacked neatly in rows along one wall, containing reams of case notes, old academic papers, clippings and other assorted reference materials, collected during many long hours of research. The study seemed a private haven, the room filled with all of the ephemera of someone's life. It was the one place where the occupant could relax, where they felt free to become themselves and where much of actual deduction was carried out; over time, the study had become a place of revelation. Henri eased back into a deep-green leather armchair and Litefoot did the same in a matching chair, but did his best to remain upright rather than sink back into the soft, supple fabric. Moments later, the door opened and Connelly entered. She sat in the brown leather swivel chair in front of the desk. "The kettle is on; everything is better with tea." She smiled and clapped her hands together, "Now," she looked between the pair, "what can I do for you."

Henri gave a brief précis of Litefoot's dream visitations from his mother. "It just seems… he… we could do with an expert," she nodded towards Connelly, "opinion."

"And lacking anyone of 'expert opinion', you thought of me?" Connelly smiled as Henri nodded sheepishly.

Connelly rubbed her hands together in a circular motion whilst looking into the middle distance, "Well Miss Jago, Doctor Connelly. This is certainly unusual. I can not recall any mention of mesmerism _during_ sleep before, mesmerism to induce sleep yes, but never during." She looked to a row of books thoughtfully. "Please give me a moment to think." She smiled, "Gives me a chance to make the tea!" she jumped up and headed for the kitchen.

Henri and Litefoot sat in silence for an awkward moment. "Miss Jago, I am not sure about this."

"Please Doctor. I am _certain_ Miss Connelly can be of help. These visitations are obviously troubling and as your friend, I feel I should help. I lack the requisite skills but…"

Litefoot looked guilty at questioning his new acquaintance, "Thank you Miss Jago." He whispered.

Connelly returned with a laden tea tray. Henri cleared a space on the occasional table so Connelly could set it down. "Thank you Miss Jago. It is a nuisance Uncle dismissing the staff but we are hardly ever here."

"Shall I be mother?" Henri sat forward to pour out the tea.

"If you wish, thank you," Connelly looked directly at Litefoot. "Now Doctor, I realise that this could be uncomfortable for you, but how much detail of your dream visitor can you recall?"

Litefoot took a sip of hot tea, "Very little when awake – other than she is wearing blue and maroon, her face is blurred and silent. There is never any sound."

"So how does she communicate?"

Litefoot waved a hand in a gesture of vagueness, "It is more an awareness of vocal communication rather than anything aural."

Connelly murmured a slight questioning sound. "And you say her face is blurred? How did you know she was your mother?"

"She has always been familiar but until yesterday I did not know here. Then I found a photograph of my mother in a floor length royal blue dress jacket over a burgundy waistcoat. The appearance matched my dream visitor but her face was clear."

Connelly grinned, "Well there is the theory that any memory of anyone is an amalgam of all our experiences of that person. Do we remember our mother's face when we were five or fifteen? Do we hear our father's voice when he called to us or the first argument? Maybe that is a bad example, voices change very little whereas faces change over time." Connelly sighed, "Now," She reached for a thin journal, "For centuries, many cultures believed in an afterlife yet now in our enlightened scientific times, death is the Final Rest – there is no anticipated, or even possible, resurrection. It is widely held – despite religious dogma built on one exception – that 'dead men rise up never'…"

"I beg your pardon?"

Connelly bowed her head, "I meant no offence Miss Jago, personally I hold few religious beliefs – there has to be more to us than the brief existence on this world but as to what lies beyond... I apologise for any slur on any religious beliefs you hold. That was not my intent. The point I was trying to make is that death is the 'Undiscovered Country from which no traveller may return' is widely held as gospel – sorry poor choice of words – as the ultimate… destination, if you like." She flicked through the journal. "But, there is a new idea, that of shaydes, apparitions or ghosts, thus the question of whether any future life awaits the dead fascinates and terrifies in equal measure. Séances are becoming a familiar ritual despite, or perhaps because of, the increasing mechanisation of our world. Many prominent figures are becoming involved, trying to judge the validity of these spiritualist beliefs fostering an even greater sense of detachment from our being. Ghosts remain mysteries and terrifying, but they can offer comforting reassurances that there might really be part of a person that survives the cessation of bodily life; that the soul may be tangible after all."

Connelly paused to take a sip of tea and passed the journal to Litefoot and Jago to read the proffered article before continuing. "If psychical researchers – such as Doctors Stanz and Spengler in Berlin are correct, ghosts _are_ a psychic phenomenon, a psychic residue of the living after bodily death. If so then ghosts are merely the minority of spirits of the dead who possess sufficient psychic strength to interact with the material world. Ectoplasm, that tenuous substance of which the ghostly manifestations form, allow the ghost to touch the living and to have a sense of touch, and if the apparition is psychically strong enough perhaps even lift anything or inflict damage as in the cases of 'poltergeists'."

Connelly took another sip of tea, "If ghosts and spirits _are_ psychics entities, then the realm where they exists is likely to be the 'astral plane' described by those psychically-adepts such as mind-readers or mediums who use the realm to travel and explore domains otherwise closed to them. Thus, an astral traveller is visiting the realm of the dead and is likely to witness at least some of these ghosts and maybe interact with them – though that is more the purview of mediums. In effect, an astral traveller is a spirit, temporarily rather than permanently separated from the body. It is also possible that this astral plane is also the realm of dreams. From what you describe, it is my belief that your mother is attempting to contact you via this astral dream plane."

"So why does she appear with a blurred face and why did I not know her as my mother?"

"Perhaps she chose to manifest in your dreams as you remember her. As for why you did not associate her with your mother…" Connelly took a deep breath, "As for the mesmerism _inside _your dream. Could I try to mesmerise you? Maybe the answer lies in your subconscious."

Henri looked worried. "I have had dealings with mesmerists in the past and no good came of it."

It was Litefoot's turn to look worried, "Do you believe it would help Miss Connelly?"

"It _could _help. There are few guarantees. As a medical man, you should know that even if a procedure has worked a dozen times before, the patient in front of you could be the exception."

Litefoot swallowed and looked at an increasingly agitated Henri. "With the proper psychical tuners," Connelly opened a drawer of the desk and withdrew a small bottle-green cloth bag tied with a drawstring that held something hard, "The boundaries between our physical world and the spiritual realm will become tangible and as easy to traverse as a doorway."

Henri cleared her throat, "But a door swings both ways…"

Connelly sighed lightly, "Yes and this is what I believe the difficulty is. Doctor Litefoot clearly has some psychical connection to the astral plane and has made contact with his mother." She opened the drawstring bag and pulled out a small dull and opaque blue crystal that Litefoot recognised from his dream. "Now," she spoke softly, "Doctor Litefoot if you will look at the crystal."

She started to rotate the crystal and Litefoot found himself peering curiously into its blue depths much in the way his dream self had the night before. To Litefoot's mind, little blue fires seemed to spring up deep inside the crystal, it began to glow and give off a glow of blue light. He felt as though he was falling into it. He was barely aware of Connelly's soft voice and totally unaware of Henri's presence. Then sleep overtook him.

Litefoot's eyes opened, he felt as though a weight upon him had been released. He looked directly at Henri, "Mother said you would be a valued friend and colleague, that I… should trust in you and until our fathers return," he paused, "I should be here for you."

Henri smiled as a tear escaped down her cheek, "Thank you." Litefoot handed her a handkerchief, and once the tears of relief were dried, Henri looked to her friend. "Thank you Doctor Litefoot." She looked to Connelly, "And thank you Miss Connelly for your assistance."

"Eleanor, please."

"Eleanor, thank you. Please call me Henri." Henri clasps her new friend's hands. "Thank you so much."

Eleanor turned the crystal over in her hands. Once more it appeared dull and opaque. "This is a curious little thing; I picked it up on one of my travels by a mountain temple of a green-eyed Buddha of Kathmandu. Our guide – Al-Khalifi said these crystals once had the power of mesmerism, but Claudio – Doctor Vita-DeNozi, he dismissed them as glass. After all they were so very abundant," she sighed wistfully. "Well…" she offered her hand to Henri and the two young women shook hands. "I wish you luck in your endeavour," she shook Litefoot's hand, "endeavours towards finding your fathers."

Litefoot and Henri made to leave, "Henri a moment, if you please" Henri nodded to Litefoot who carried on out to the car.

"Yes?"

"Please do not think I speak out of anything but friendship; you have feelings for the good doctor. Am I right?"

Henri tried to feel angry at the directness of the question, but blushed scarlet, "Yes. I have only known him two days. Two days! But the thought of him being troubled, I felt so helpless and guilty."

Eleanor smiled, "I thought so. Let him know how you feel before it is too late." Henri looked troubled. "I did – not with your Doctor but..."

Henri hugged the other woman. "I am so sorry, I will. Thank you." Henri left, as Eleanor sat and pulled out a photograph of an expedition.

Unseen by anyone, tears welled in her eyes and she sobbed over the photograph. "Oh Claudio…"

7. Lady Down

_Winton Road Police Station_

Litefoot brought his car to a halt. There was some panic on at the station; cars and vans scattered about the yard and it appeared every constable in the station's district was there. Litefoot and Jago headed inside. "Sergeant Higgins, what the devil is going on?"

"Ah Doctor Litefoot," the Sergeant looked up from his ledger, "One of those atmotic flyers has come down out at Mile End. Everyone is being roused out there."

Litefoot rubbed his chin, "There might be casualties. I had better get more supplies." He headed around the desk to go down to his office, "Perhaps, Miss Jago, you would like to wait here?"

"Not on your Nelly." Henri bridled, "You may need all the help you can get."

"Very well, I will return in moments."

_Mile End_

From over two hundred yards away it was clear that the atmotic ship crash was a disaster of phenomenal proportions. Black smoke spiralled through the sky in a dark, liquid trail, a smudge across the landscape, clearly denoting the point of impact and consequent explosion.

The wreckage was scattered across a wide area of parkland, isolated flames still licking in little, glowing puddles, where firemen had yet to extinguish the smaller pieces of debris that had come to rest in the area surrounding the main carcass of the downed ship. Hose carts circled the wreckage, whilst onlookers milled around a police cordon that had been established around the entire perimeter of the park. A tree was on fire on the far side of the site, and firemen were currently engaged in trying to bring it under control before the flames spread to the neighbouring evergreens.

The ship itself was now nothing but a burnt husk, its shattered substructure an exposed skeleton, stark against the surrounding parkland. It reminded Henri of a beached whale she had once seen as a child, half-rotted in the sea air, its enormous rib-cage exposed to the elements.

Litefoot opened the door of his car spluttering on the thick smoke that lay heavy in the air all around them. The stench of the burnt vessel was almost unbearable. He moved around the car to help Henri out, offering her a handkerchief to cover her face. She took it gratefully.

"What in God's name happened here?" Her voice was muffled from behind the small piece of linen that she held over her mouth and nose. Her eyes watered, stinging with the smoke.

"Atmotic ships such as this one get their lift from gasbags filled with helium or hydrogen which is much cheaper. In the later case, the gas is highly flammable, and in a major impact such as this..." He shook his head. "Well, you can see the results for yourself. I've read about a handful of similar incidents. The most recent was in Bulgaria, I believe, where a pilot missed his berthing tether and instead lowered the ship onto the ground spike, ripping the gasbags open and igniting the entire vessel in flame."

Henri looked grave. "But all those passengers…" She was staring out over the chaotic scene before them, unsure what to make of it all. She drew her coat around herself, an unconscious gesture that belied her horror at the sight of the wreckage and the carnage it represented.

Litefoot was lost for comforting words. He paused, and then looked around, straining to see over the bustling crowds of people. "Come on; let us see if Hawthorne is here yet." Together, the two of them made their way around the cordon, looking for signs of the Inspector. Litefoot kept a hand on Henri's arm as they pushed their way through the press of locals, who had turned out in their droves to see the spectacle of the downed ship. Litefoot supposed he could not blame them; for many it was a frightening near miss, with such a devastating explosion occurring so close to their homes. The vessel could have easily come down upon a row of terraced houses instead of the relative safety of the park. For others it was surely a unique opportunity to witness something that they would usually only read about in newspapers, a sensational spectacle to tell their grandchildren of in years to come. In a purely detached sense – ignoring, for a moment, the human cost of the tragedy – history was unfolding before their eyes.

They pressed on, fighting against the swarm of people in an attempt to find someone who looked like they were in charge. Moments later, they found who they were looking for.

The police had set up a temporary base underneath a bandstand, just inside the cordon at the far end of the crash site. Wreaths of dark smoke still curled through the air, and here, the stench of the wreckage was even more intolerable than when they had first arrived. Litefoot tried not to imagine what was causing the diabolical smell. He made his way over to the cordon line and called to get the attention of one of the men stationed there.

"Hello? May I have some assistance here please?"

Two men in suits, deep in conversation, looked around to eye the newcomer. One of them flicked his wrist to a uniformed officer and the man came plodding over to where Litefoot and Henri were standing.

"Yes?"

"I'm attempting to locate Inspector Hawthorne. Can you tell me; is he present at the site?"

"No sir, I don't believe he is." The other man looked irritated, as if anxious to get back to his post.

"Ah. Well in that case, is there anyone else I could talk to?"

Litefoot reached into his jacket pocket and produced his credentials, which he waved at the constable, the crest of the Metropolitan Police clearly visible on his papers. "My name is Doctor Edison Litefoot, Metropolitan Police Medical Examiner."

The constable pondered for a moment, "Of course sir, if you'd like to come this way?" The officer lifted the cordon and both Litefoot and Henri dipped their heads to pass underneath the rope barrier. Henri, straightening herself on the other side, made a point of repositioning her hat. Litefoot supposed she was trying to keep herself busy, and keep her mind from wandering back to the horrors on the other side of the bandstand.

The two men in suits were still deep in conversation as the three of them approached. Henri cast her eyes around. She could see the police were struggling to get the situation under control; they were few in number and their constables were barely managing to keep the onlookers back from the cordon, whilst higher-ranking officers attempted to co-ordinate the other emergency services and at the same time ensure that nothing was removed from the wreckage that may later prove useful in uncovering the cause of the disaster. She was sure the investigation would already be underway, but it seemed to her as if the police had their hands full just trying to stop the crash site itself from getting out of control.

The bobby who had led them over from the barrier made a point of clearing his throat, and the two men in suits ceased talking for a moment to take them in. The man on the left dressed in pinstriped grey, with a full beard and dark green cravat, looked Litefoot up and down discerningly. He seemed about to say something when the constable stepped in. "Sir, this gentleman is here on behalf of the police."

The man nodded an unreadable expression on his face. "Indeed, well, we can certainly do with all the help we can get. Abominable affair," His face cracked into a sad smile. He held out his hand, "Inspector Foulkes of Charlton Street, Mile End."

Litefoot took his hand. "Doctor Edison Litefoot."

"Ah, Doctor Litefoot, yes, Hawthorne has told me all about you and your forensic credentials. We don't have a medical bod at Mile End. Glad you could make it." He put his hand on the shoulder of the man he had been talking with when they arrived. "This is Mister Stokes, representing the operators of the atmotic craft in question."

Henri noted that Stokes was harbouring a dark frown. Litefoot took his hand, inclining his head politely. "Mister Stokes." He stepped back, allowing the others to see Henri, who had been standing behind him in the shadow of the bandstand throughout the course of the exchange. "This is my assistant, Miss Henrietta Jago. She will be aiding me in my inquiries."

Foulkes looked startled by this new development, but quickly assented. He turned to the man named Stokes. "Mister Stokes, I'd appreciate it if you could repeat and elaborate on some details for me. Have you any notion yet of what occurred to bring about this sorry situation?"

Stokes looked immediately uncomfortable. He was a short, lean man, shorter than both Litefoot and Foulkes and only a few inches taller than Henri. He wore a brown suit and white collar, with black shoes that, Henri noted, were filthy with mud, grime and ash from the crash site. His moustache was trimmed to perfection and waxed at the ends, and his bushy eyebrows did much to accentuate his apparently permanent frown. He shuffled uncomfortably on the spot. "Alas, we are only just beginning to piece together the sequence of events that preceded this tragedy. There is nothing in the wreckage to indicate what may have happened on board, and we can see no obvious reason why it should have plummeted out of the sky as dramatically as it did. Unfortunately, there are no survivors left to question, either."

Litefoot shook his head, his face serious. It was obvious he did not care for Stokes's dismissive tone. "What of the ship itself? What was it, and where was it bound?"

"The ship was the _Lady Charlotte_, and according to my charter she was inbound from Persia by way of Paris. She is – _was_ a passenger vessel, the smallest size in our fleet, and appears to have been carrying around fifty individuals when it crashed."

"Fifty…" Henri was appalled. "What of survivors? How many survived?"

"None, all aboard died on impact." Stokes looked almost bored.

"So there can be no need of your medical services Doctor." Stokes' lips thin, "Why not toddle off back…"

Litefoot interrupted, "What of your employers Mister Stokes?"

Stokes offered Litefoot a black look. "I am a legal representative of _Chapman & Villiers Air Transportation Services_, of Battersea. Mister Chapman himself has engaged me to assess the situation here today and to act as his mouthpiece during the ongoing investigation. Any questions pertaining to the company can be directed at me. I am also the firm's legal representative."

Litefoot glanced at Henri, a sardonic expression on his face, and then turned his attention to Foulkes. "Do you know if Inspector Hawthorne will be attending the scene?"

"Not initially, doctor. He has devolved responsibility for the case to me for the time being. He's still caught up in this damnable de Salem situation."

"Indeed." Litefoot studied the wreckage before he glanced back at Stokes, who was attempting to clean the dirt from his shoes by rubbing them on the grass. "Do we know how long it has been since the vessel came down?"

The other man did not look up from his ministrations. "Witnesses are reporting seeing the vessel come down between ten and ten-thirty this morning." He emitted a 'tutting' sound as he continued to rub the side of his shoe on the wet grass, to no avail.

Foulkes flushed red. "Damn it man! Fifty people are dead! Show some decency; pay _attention_ to the issue in hand. We must get to the bottom of this."

Stokes ceased wiping his shoes and looked immediately flustered. He stammered something incoherent, which Litefoot appeared to take as an apology. Henri tried to cover her laughter on seeing the man's expression with a loud cough made all the easier by the particulates in the air.

Litefoot met Foulkes's eyes. "I think the next logical step is for me to examine the wreckage."

"I am sure that will be acceptable with Mister Stokes." The Inspector shot the lawyer a sideways glance. "But I will warn you, doctor, it is a disturbing experience. I toured the remains of the vessel as soon as it was cool enough to go aboard, and I assure you, it's _no place_ for a lady." He made a point of stressing these last few words as he tipped his head towards Henri.

Litefoot was unperturbed. "I appreciate your candour, Inspector Foulkes. Of course, it's up to the lady to decide for herself. Allow me to consult with Miss Jago in private for a short while." With that he turned his back on the two men and drew Henri to one side, under the shadow of the bandstand.

"Miss Jago, I would not presume to ask you to follow me into the horror of this wreck. After all, we met barely two days ago and I can not ask that you risk life and limb clambering after me into the still smouldering carcass of a downed atmotic ship." He paused, giving his words time to sink in. "I… I would be very happy if you preferred to wait for me here instead."

Henri crossed her arms. "That's all very well, Doctor Litefoot, but what if you miss something fundamental? Two heads, four eyes; surely a second pair of eyes would prove useful, especially when one considers the sheer size of the wreckage?"

Litefoot flushed as he hid a smile, trying to conceal his pleasure at her response. He was secretly very pleased that she wanted to watch.

"Very well, better prepare yourself. It is going to be dangerous, dirty and pretty horrific in there." He was about to move off when another thought occurred to him. "Oh, and hang on to that handkerchief too. I suspect the smell will be unbearable as we get closer."

Litefoot returned to stand beside Inspector Foulkes. "Miss Jago intends to attend the scene alongside me." Foulkes looked ready to object, before Litefoot caught his eye. "I assure you I'll look after the lady's wellbeing. Now, what would be the best way into the wreck from here?"

Stokes was first to answer. "The ship came down nose first, so the rear of the ship retains the bulk of its shape whilst the sub-frame at the front of the vessel has compacted, making it difficult to enter. I would suggest you find your way around the left hand side," he indicated with a wave of his hand, "and enter through the main cabin door on the side of the gondola. I am not sure what it is you are hoping to find in there, though. In truth it's nothing but a burnt-out husk."

Litefoot and Henri shared a look and the doctor shrugged. "I'll know it when I see it, no doubt. Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen, we shall return presently, before the light begins to wane." He turned and offered Henri his arm.

Foulkes watched as the two civilians, entirely incongruous in their inappropriate attire, began making their way towards the huge, shattered structure on the park green, cautiously stepping around the still-smouldering piles of debris as they walked.

On the crest of the hill, hidden, he thought, in the trees McGeehan's body did not reach its squatting position by the normal movements of a man. It was impossible, however, to point to any particular motion or motions that were definitively non-human. Madsen, watching through a compact telescope from his hidden vantage point inside a police van within the cordon, had the sense of observing an imitation of living motions that had been very well studied and while technically correct, somehow lacked the master touch. Madsen felt a chill in his spine for an inarticulate, night-nursery horror of the thing McGeehan had become – the man-aged corpse, the bogey, the Un-Man.

Yet something in Madsen's mind registered "Grimwade's Syndrome", named for Peter Grimwade who was first diagnosed with the disease. Grimwade had been Production Manager and Chief Engineer at the leading automaton factory in Birmingham. He had begun to subconsciously equate the highly humanoid automata that emulate emotions with animated corpses. All living creatures use non-verbal signals from body movement and eye-contact to minute facial expressions to further communication. Many automata are designed to be human in shape and form yet they can not replicate this body language. This lack of signals seems to undermine a certain type of personality. It produces identity crisis, paranoia, personality disintegration – and finally deep phobia of the automata that could induce catatonia or homicidal tendencies.

"_But,_" Madsen wondered, "_What_ _is the diagnosis for a man made into a machine?_" Madsen lifted the telescope up to his eye, but of McGeehan there was no sign. "Now where the devil has _he _got to?"

8. Belly of the Beast

The wreck of the _Lady Charlotte_ was like the carcass of some ancient, primordial beast; the skein of rubber-coated fabric that served as the outer skin of the vessel now burnt and torn like peeling flesh. The sub-structure of iron girders jutted into the sky like broken ribs blackened by the soot and heat and buckled from the impact. The engine housing, at the rear of the wreckage, looked relatively intact, although in truth it was hard to tell as much of it was buried in the earth where the impact had driven it into the ground. The passenger gondola, usually situated underneath the belly of the main lozenge of the ship, had been forced upwards and backwards, puncturing the underside of the vessel and contorting awkwardly where it came into contact with the iron struts of the interior frame. The whole thing was a terrible mess, and Litefoot had to use every ounce of his experience to maintain a level head as he walked towards it.

Steam and smoke still rose from deep inside the wreckage, and as both Litefoot and Henri approached the misshapen outer door of the gondola, Litefoot felt the need to warn his new friend and assistant once again of the dangers they may face inside.

"Make sure you do not touch anything. It may still be hot from the fires. And watch out overhead, too; the wreck has not settled yet, and as the metal cools, fragments of the vessel may still collapse inwards, trapping us inside, or worse." He covered his nose and mouth with the crook of his arm to stave off the terrible smell of death and burnt rubber. Henri followed suit, once again holding Litefoot's borrowed handkerchief to her face. The hem of her skirt was already thick with mud and soot where it trailed on the ground, her boots filthy with grime. She tried not to notice.

The door into the gondola had buckled badly when the structure had been pushed up into the main body of the vessel during the crash. There was nothing but a blackened frame there now, where once there had obviously been an elaborate door and mechanism. Henri peered inside, seeing nothing but darkness and iron girders. "Are you sure this is the best way in?"

"It looks like the _only_ way in, as far as I can tell." He looked around, confirming his suspicions. "I would not trust that man Stokes for a minute, but I can't fault his directions in this instance. Here, let me go first." Litefoot tentatively put a hand on the outer rim of the door. "Hmm, it's still warm." He gripped it more firmly with both hands and swung himself through the twisted metal opening. Henri watched him disappear inside.

"Oh well. For father, I suppose." She grabbed the door frame and swung herself in behind him. Inside, Henri found it difficult to get a sense of the scale of the ship. She was standing in what she assumed had been the lobby, although now, with fire and structural damage, it was difficult to tell. The _Lady Charlotte_ may have been small by atmotic ship standards, but on the ground it was still an immense vessel, and the passenger gondola was equally well-proportioned. Litefoot was making his way towards the compartments at the front of the gondola, if she had her bearings right. She watched him climbing over blackened furniture and the still-warm cinders of other unidentifiable objects for a moment. He turned back. "I am off to try to find the pilot's control room. You take a look around. We'll meet up again shortly." She looked the other way, trying to see a path through the scene of destruction, "Oh, and Miss Jago?"

"Yes?"

"Be careful."

She smiled to herself, pleased with his evident concern. The lobby – or what remained of it – was a long rectangular room with doors in each of the far walls. Since Litefoot was heading fore she decided to take the other option and see what she could find towards the rear of the vessel. She supposed, as she trod carefully over the ash-covered floor, that she was heading towards the part of the ship reserved for passengers, since the bulk of the gondola's interior space seemed to lay in this direction. Fighting her way past the crisp shell of a wooden sideboard, and ducking under a nest of trailing metal cables, she came to a stop in front of the door. It was still relatively intact, although flames had obviously licked black soot up and down its fascia. She hesitated, deeply unsure and troubled by what she feared; she was likely to happen across a body or two on the other side. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself. Her palate was growing used to the stench, now, and her clothes were so thick with grime, dust and soot that she had given up paying attention. She reached out and tried the handle, then immediately withdrew her hand. It was still hot from the fire, and even through her red-leather gloves she knew it would scald her hand. Not only that, but the door appeared to have sealed shut with the heat. Stepping back, and looking around her to ensure no one was watching, she hitched her skirt up above her knees and sent her booted foot flying into the centre of the door. It gave a little in the frame, splintering where the wood had been stressed by the heat. She tried again, this time putting her full weight behind her as she drove herself forward into the door.

It gave, bursting open and slamming back against an iron girder that blocked the way on the other side. She wondered, for a moment, if Litefoot would come limping along at the noise, but after a short while had passed she could hear no sound of him so decided to press on. Pushing back against the door, she decided she would try to squeeze her way through the gap she had created between the doorway and the girder. She tucked her hat underneath her arm, her dark hair spilling out of its carefully prepared coiffure.

She manoeuvred her way into the opening. Inside, she could still feel the residual warmth from the burnt-out interior and the floor was covered in a sticky, mud-like residue, which she supposed had been created when the water from the hose carts had mixed with the soot and ash, forming a film of black grime upon the ground.

She looked around, and then dropped the handkerchief to the floor with a gasp. She stared in horror at the sight before her; remains of the dead filled row-upon-row of passenger seats. Horrific, skeletal cadavers sat fixed in their final death throes, gripping the seats in front of them, screaming at their neighbours, or else spilled out on to the floor where they had tried to find somewhere to run. It was as if someone had set out a grisly diorama, a charnel house audience locked away in this horrible room, awaiting an appointment with God. She approached, slowly, hacking back on the rising bile in her throat. Her eyes filled with tears. It was the most appalling sight she had ever seen. She wondered why the people were nearly all still seated, why they had not even tried to bailout of the ship as it crashed, or at least taken cover in the hope that they may survive the impending impact. The corpses were all blackened and burnt, cooked flesh still clinging to the bones, terrified screams still fixed on their faces. She had no way of telling which of them had even been male or female, save for the occasional piece of jewellery still hanging around a woman's throat.

Leaning closer to one of the bodies, she noted the answer to her earlier question – the person had been tied into their seat, fixed by a hoop around their left foot to the base of the seat in front. She checked another, and another, and found that they were all the same. No wonder the people had not tried to run. They could not.

Henri noticed a gentle patter of raindrops on her face. She looked up. High above, she could see the sky through the torn belly of the atmotic ship, the broken spokes of its internal structure poking up into the waning afternoon light. She realised almost immediately that the water droplets she had felt were not rain, but water from the hose carts, sprayed into the blazing inferno earlier that day and still dripping from the girders up above. She glanced around; looking for anything else that may have been of use. She could see a hole in the left side of the room where the firemen had obviously dug their way through from the outside in an attempt to find survivors. She wondered how those men had reacted to the scene that had faced them. Had they too been as appalled as she was? She finally gave in to her horror and vomited on the ground, her eyes stinging as she retched, violently, over and over again, until there was nothing left for her body to expel. She stood, gasping, wondering if she would ever be able to shift the smell of the burnt flesh and cooked bone from her hair and skin, or worse, from her nightmares. Perhaps she should have stayed outside after all.

She turned at the sound of the door banging against the girder.

Litefoot stepped into the room. He coughed, hacking on the smell of the still-warm and wet bodies.

"My God," he rushed to Henri's side. "Are you alright?"

Henri coughed. "I'm not sure I shall ever be alright again. I just can't believe the devastation. So many people dead, burned alive in the fires. What a horrible way to die."

Litefoot looked saddened. "It would not have been a lingering death. The collapse of the gasbags will have caused a series of massive fireballs to blow through the ship. They can not have suffered for more than a few seconds. It probably explains why they're all still sat at their seats." He realised that this may come across as callous, but Henri seemed quite oblivious as she drew his attention to something.

Henri crouched down beside a row of seats. "That, and the fact they were all tied into position like common criminals." She showed him the loop of charred rope around the ankle of the nearest passenger.

"Stokes made no mention of the vessel having any remit as a penal transport. Do you suspect he was trying to hide something?"

"I believe he was trying to obfuscate." She stood again, blinking. "What did you find in the control room?"

"Nothing," he sighed.

"Oh." She moved to turn away, anxious to put space between herself and the grisly scene, then paused when she realised that he had not quite finished.

"That is just it. Nothing; no pilot or co-pilot to be found, no bodies, no evidence to suggest they were ever there at all. It is as if the pilot simply abandoned the controls."

Henri frowned. "Do you think that's why the ship went down; because the pilot wasn't at the controls? Could he have bailed out before impact? Or could he be back here, unidentifiable now from the other passengers?"

"I suppose anything is possible." Litefoot looked up, noticing that the light was starting to go. "Come on, I think we've seen enough, and this is far from the ideal of time aboard an atmotic ship – though it is better being conscious." He looked circumspect. "Besides, I do believe we have some more questions for Mister Stokes."

Mister Stokes was still standing around the police cordon when Litefoot and Henri edged up beside him. They were both filthy from clambering around in the wreckage, and Litefoot was looking forward to retiring for the day, intent on a long soak in a hot bath. Stokes turned to regard them as they approached.

"Well, I do believe it is true what they have been saying. The police are prepared to get its hands dirty from time-to-time." He guffawed at his own joke.

Litefoot was unmoved. "What of Inspector Foulkes?"

Stokes was obviously taken aback by Litefoot's directness. "Um, no, he had to go off somewhere; something about a fireman getting injured in the wreckage."

"Well, Mister Stokes, perhaps you could make yourself useful for a moment? I have another question and it is very much in need of an answer." The other man nodded, apprehensive now. "What became of the ship's pilot? We have been down to the control room and there is no evidence of a body. Indeed, there is precious little evidence that a pilot was even onboard."

Stokes's complexion turned a ghostly shade of white. "The, um, the pilot is missing."

"Missing? How does a pilot go missing? Did he bail about before the crash?"

"Not exactly, Doctor Litefoot… if I can just…"

"Look, I am in _no_ mood for your ridiculous evasions now! Can you answer the question or not?"

Henri put a hand on Litefoot's arm in an effort to quell his rising temper. Stokes gave an audible sigh. "There is no way in which the pilot of that vessel could have bailed out before the crash."

"Why is that, Mister Stokes?" This from Henri, who had evidently decided to step in and calm the situation before things got out of hand.

"Because it was not a 'he', it was an 'it'.'' He rubbed his hands over his face in exasperation. "The pilot of the _Lady Charlotte_ was a clockwork automaton, designed by Mister Villiers himself. They're remarkable units, capable of many basic and, indeed, higher functions. But they are not programmed to abandon their stations in an emergency. They're simply not capable of it."

"Automata piloting an atmotic ship, why not disclose this information before now?"

Foulkes returned in time to overhear the last exchange, "Automata? There's the probable cause for your disaster, Mister Stokes! The unit clearly malfunctioned."

Stokes shook his head defensively. "Oh no, Foulkes, that is simply not the case. The automata have been piloting atmotic ships for nearly six months now on most of our lines – in some cases even longer. In fact, I believe some of our automata-piloted craft saw service during the Northumberland campaign," he scoffed, "especially during the retreat of our army." He looks directly at Litefoot as he made this last point. "All tests have shown that the safety records have improved dramatically during this time. Up to eighty percent! The programme is fully approved. We have all the necessary paperwork back at the office. I assure you, sir, that it is a simple impossibility that the unit malfunctioned. It is physically not possible."

"So where is the unit now, Mister Stokes?" Henri smiled in a placatory fashion.

Stokes cleared his throat. He was clearly uncomfortable with the course of the entire conversation. "I'm afraid I have no idea. My report will state that the device was destroyed in the explosion. Now look," He waved a manifest in front of them. "Foulkes here expected me to provide a full passenger register for the police before the day is out. That is done," he handed the document over; "I really have to be getting on."

"Of course, we're sorry to have kept you." Henri took Litefoot's proffered arm and began to edge away. Then, as if just remembering something, she stopped and looked back. "Oh, and Mister Stokes Just one more thing before you go?"

"Yes?"

"Could you tell me why all of the passengers were confined to their seats with loops of rope around their ankles?"

Stokes looked as if he were about to choke. "A simple safety precaution, Miss Jago; in case of emergency all passengers are required to insert their left foot into the safety brace underneath the seat in front. It stops people tumbling all over the craft if the pilot encounters dangerous turbulence whilst airborne."

Henri nodded. "Thank you, Mister Stokes, you've been most helpful."

She watched with Litefoot as the little man scuttled away, keen to put distance between him and the ire of the investigators. The light was fading now, the sun low in the sky over the city. The crowds of people around the edges of the park had begun to thin and disperse.

"You understand, of course, that there's no feasible way in which the skeleton of a brass automaton could have been incinerated in that blaze? Especially when one considers that the majority of the human cadavers are still relatively intact." Litefoot sounded contemplative now, rather than angry. Henri nodded. "Something is definitely wrong here, and I'll wager it has its roots in the offices of _Chapman & Villiers Air Transportation Services_." He sighed, blinking to keep himself alert. "For now, though, I think it is time I retired to my surgery. Can I drop you at home on my way, Miss Jago?"

She nodded, clearly exhausted. "Please do, Doctor."

A constable held the cordon for them as they took their leave of the crash site and made their way to the doctor's car, and their respective destinations.

Sometime later, Litefoot sat in his father's drawing room. Mrs Hudson had lit a fire and the room was beginning to get stuffy. Litefoot watched the dance of the flames for a while. He could not help thinking of the ruined, tortured faces in the wreck of the atmotic ship that he and Miss Jago had seen that afternoon. Miss Jago had taken it badly, but so, in truth, had he. Miss Jago had scarcely said a word during the journey to her home. He had seen many corpses in his lifetime – during his military service – of course, but in this instance it was a matter of scale; never before had he witnessed a scene as horrifying as that.

In the morning he would meet Miss Jago at Winton Road, and they would make their way to Battersea, to the manufactory of _Chapman and Villiers Air Transportation Services_. There, he hoped to find out more about the mysterious automata and their creator Monsieur Pierre Villiers, an exiled Frenchman who, he had read in the police records, had been bought up on charges over a decade ago for experimenting on human wastrels in his Parisian laboratory. Still, that was for the morning, and for tonight, he aspired, sleep was near at hand.

9. Battersea Balloons

_Limehouse_

The morning was unusually bright, given the heavy fog of the last few days as Henri made her way up to the police station. Birds twittered in the trees overhead, and the sun poked through the clouds to sprinkle bright columns of light across the city.

After the horrors of the previous day, Henri had returned to her home, where she had bathed, eaten and gone directly to bed without encountering her mother for fear of upsetting her. Now, feeling somewhat refreshed, she hoped that the coming day would prove less fraught and also less likely to inspire nightmares. The scenes from the crash site were still emblazoned on her mind, and she tried to push them to the back of her thoughts as she prepared herself for what the new day might bring. Besides she was almost giddy at the thought of spending another day in the company of Doctor Litefoot. She smiled to herself.

_Battersea_

From their approach across the Chelsea Bridge, the atmotic ship works were clearly visible in the morning light; a series of immense, red-brick hangers, squat beside the shimmering Thames, fires hissing like smoke signals from a row of tall, broad chimneys. Steam hissed from outlet pipes in great, white plumes, whilst water gushed back into the river in a deluge of brown sludge. Huge atmotic ships were tethered to the roofs of the hangers, reminiscent of a row of children's balloons, bobbling languorously in the breeze.

The offices of _Chapman & Villiers Air Transportation Services _were an austere affair, housed within a separate structure that was divorced from the factory proper by a large courtyard and an elaborate set of cast iron gates. Clearly the proprietors were intent on maintaining a strict distance between their visiting clientele and the factory workers themselves, who, Litefoot guessed, would likely have a separate entrance somewhere around the rear of the complex. It appeared, from the signs evident in the windows, that the office not only dealt with the company's commercial affairs but also served as a travel agency, of sorts, selling passage on its fleet of charter vessels to locations all over the globe, from Prussia to China, Jersey to Hong Kong. Litefoot had travelled a great deal in his youth by virtue of his father's profession and whilst he still felt the occasional pang for foreign climes, he knew he could never settle abroad. He enjoyed England too much for that, even with all of its foibles and silly, archaic ways. He toyed with his gloves for a moment. "Well, Miss Jago, I do hope you have your detective's cap on?"

In reply, she stepped forward and pulled the office door open before her. It groaned loudly on its hinges. "After you, Doctor," He shook his head, taking the door from her and ushering her inside.

"Come now, Miss Jago, let's do things properly."

The main reception area was as sobering in appearance as one expected after taking in the view of the building from the outside; the walls were hung with a dark, burgundy wall covering that seemed to soak up all of the light, and a scattering of chairs were situated beside low coffee tables and tall, leafy plants. A set of short stairs led up to another, unseen level.

Henri perused the scene, taking it all in. A clerk sat in one corner with his back to them, talking to a customer in hushed tones. She gathered that the man was interested in purchasing transport to the Far East. Another man sat behind a mahogany desk, his fingers formed a perfect steeple before him on the polished surface, his pale face belying his apparent displeasure at receiving customers so close to lunch.

"Can I help you?" His voice was thin and nasal.

Litefoot strode up to the desk and placed his hat down beside a sheaf of paper files. The clerk looked at the item as if it were a horse's head, his disdain clearly evident.

"I am here to see Mister Chapman."

The clerk made a show of looking in his ledger. "Are you sure, sir? I have no meetings scheduled for Mister Chapman today. He really is a very busy man." He shut his ledger as if that were simply the end of the matter. "Perhaps you would care to make an appointment?"

"I am afraid you do not seem to understand my position. It is imperative I speak with Mister Chapman today."

"Imperative you say, sir?" The clerk raised an eyebrow, "Could I inquire as to what business _you_ may have with my employer that could possibly be so urgent? If you are looking to make a complaint about a recent journey then you can find the forms behind you on the table there."

Henri sighed. "We are here on the business of the police. It is a delicate matter that my associate here wishes to discuss with Mister Chapman in private." She cleared her throat and made a show of indicated the room's other occupants, "Of course, if you would prefer us to air his private business out here…?"

The man's entire demeanour changed. His face seemed to flush with colour and his pursed lips split into a wide smile. He swallowed and parted his hands in a conciliatory gesture. The timbre of his voice almost immediately became more welcoming. "Of course, sir, ma'am; I quite understand. Allow me to go and enquire as to whether Mister Chapman is available. May I offer him your name?"

"Doctor Edison Litefoot."

"Please take a seat, Doctor. I will only be a moment." Litefoot watched as the clerk scuttled out from behind his desk and crossed the office, glancing once behind him to see if Litefoot was watching. He climbed the stairs and disappeared from view. Henri moved to one of the seats and sat down, smiling. Litefoot paced the office, despite a stiff leg, obviously impatient, bringing his cane down hard as hard and emphatically as possible on the wooden floor.

A moment or two later the clerk appeared at the top of the stairs. He climbed down; his hands clasped behind his back, and approached Litefoot tentatively, as one might approach a lion. "Mister Chapman is in his office and would be only too delighted to make your acquaintance, Doctor Litefoot. I will show you up now." He beckoned them to follow behind him. Litefoot remembered to reclaim his hat before helping Henri to her feet.

At the top of the stairs, three doors led into what Litefoot supposed were private offices. The clerk hesitated before the middle one, clearing his throat. He rapped politely, three times, and then opened the door with a flourish, stepping to one side to allow them to enter, "Your visitors, sir."

Litefoot followed Henri into the room, his hat tucked carefully under his arm.

It was a large office, and ostentatiously furnished, cluttered with artwork and fine goods from all corners of the globe. Litefoot cast his eyes around, trying to get a measure of the place. An enormous marble fireplace took pride of place along one wall, whilst above it, a portrait of the Queen looked mournfully down upon the visitors. A display case in one corner held relics from as far afield as Constantinople, Baghdad, Greece and Delhi; souvenirs, Litefoot supposed, from journeys undertaken in pursuit of business in those far-flung nations.

Chapman himself lounged in a large Chesterfield, smoking a cigarette. His hair was blonde and cut long around his shoulders, and he was dressed in his shirtsleeves and a black waistcoat. Litefoot thought he had the look of a cat about him, languorously warming himself before the fire. He stood as Litefoot entered the room and moved quickly to shake his hand. "Doctor Litefoot, I presume?"

"Indeed." Litefoot took his hand and shook it firmly. He stepped to one side. "Allow me to introduce my assistant, Miss Henrietta Jago."

Chapman smiled and took her hand, holding it for just a moment longer than was necessary, before inclining his head politely. "Delighted, 'm sure." He gestured at the clerk, who was still standing in the doorway. "Now, can my man Soames fetch you any refreshments? Brandy perhaps?" He glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. "Not too early for that, are we?" He looked baffled, as if he had only just realised the time.

Litefoot shook his head. "A pot of tea would be fine. Earl Grey if you have it?"

Chapman nodded briskly and Soames disappeared again, clicking the door shut behind him. They heard his footsteps on the stairs as he made his way down to the office below.

Chapman beckoned for them to take a seat, folding himself back into his chair. He reclaimed his cigarette from the ashtray on the table and took a long, luxurious draw. It was clear to Litefoot that the man did not give much thought to convention; his entire manner was at odds with his station, and his appearance marked him out as something of a fop. Nevertheless, he could not help feeling drawn to the man's bohemian charm. He could see immediately that there was a cool intelligence lurking behind the darting, ice-blue eyes, and whilst he did not put much stock in the man's taste in furnishings, he had to admit the fellow had an acute nose for business. Either that or he was spending his inheritance at a rate of knots that would soon see him bankrupt or destitute. Chapman tapped his cigarette in the ashtray and regarded Litefoot with a wistful smile. "So, Doctor, I presume you are here regarding that terrible business with the _Lady Charlotte_?" He looked suddenly serious, "A truly lamentable affair."

Litefoot nodded. "Yes. Have you visited the site of the wreckage yourself, Mister Chapman?"

"No," he paused to take another draw on his cigarette, "unfortunately I was previously engaged – a small matter to resolve with my banker – so I took the liberty of relying on my legal representative, Mister Stokes."

Litefoot stiffened. "Yes, I spoke with Mister Stokes for a brief while yesterday."

Chapman smiled knowingly. "Terrible bore, isn't he? Seems to be the way with these legal chaps; dependable, though. I trust he gave you everything you required?"

It was Litefoot's turn to smile. "In a manner of speaking, nevertheless, I thought it wise to pay a visit this afternoon, in an effort to get a better understanding of your operation, and to see for myself these automatons that Stokes mentioned."

Chapman's eyes lit up. "Ah, the automata, Villiers' prized creations; they are impressive machines, Doctor, if you have not yet seen one?"

Litefoot glanced at Henri. "Indeed not. I would certainly welcome a demonstration."

"Sure that can be arranged." He reached over and crumpled his cigarette in the ashtray. "And you, Miss Jago. I'm sure you'd find the machines equally as impressive."

"I'm sure I would, Mister Chapman."

Litefoot looked up at the sound of rapping on the door, and then Soames entered, bearing their tea on a large platter. He crossed the room and placed it on the table before them. Chapman watched him turn and leave, waiting until the last moment to call after him. "Thank you, Soames."

Litefoot scratched his chin absently. "So, Mister Chapman, Mister Stokes mentioned yesterday that one of these remarkable new automatons was behind the controls of the _Lady Charlotte_ when she went down?" Henri studied the other man's face, watching for a reaction.

He remained impassive. "Quite possible, I believe around half of the fleet is now equipped with the machines. We even have a Royal charter. Remarkable, really, when you come to think of it…"

"Quite." Litefoot paused. "Mister Chapman, I am unsure if you are aware of the complete circumstances surrounding the disaster yesterday morning?"

Chapman looked puzzled, "Mister Stokes provided me with a thorough report of his findings. I also spoke with Inspector Foulkes of Scotland Yard." He sighs, "I'd _imagine_ myself to be in full possession of the facts."

"Did Mister Stokes's report make reference to the fact that the pilot of the vessel appeared to be missing from the wreckage?"

Chapman fished around in his waistcoat pocket, searching out his silver cigarette case. He flicked it open and withdrew one of the small white sticks, before offering them around to the others, when neither accepted he slipped the case back into his pocket and struck a match with a loud rasp. Smoke billowed around his face as he regarded Litefoot. "He made mention of the fact that the unit in question had been destroyed in the impact."

Litefoot met his gaze. "I find that very difficult to believe, Mister Chapman. I understand the skeletal frames of these automatons are constructed out of brass?"

"Correct."

"Then why were their no remnants of the unit in evidence anywhere onboard the ship? Both Miss Jago and I toured the wreckage and I can assure you, there was nothing to be found."

Chapman poured the tea, his face thoughtful. "Well, if Mister Stokes's assertions are correct, the unit may have burnt up in the fires that followed the crash."

Litefoot sipped from his teacup. "Come now, Mister Chapman. We both know that the heat in that wreckage would never have reached a temperature enough to incinerate brass. There has to be another explanation."

Chapman shrugged apologetically. "Perhaps it survived the incident and clambered out of the wreckage, wandering away into the park?"

"The police are certainly following that line of inquiry. Tell me, do you have any notion what may have gone wrong with the unit to cause it to lose control of the vessel, Mister Chapman?"

Chapman shook his head. "As I understand it, Doctor, the automaton was not responsible for the crash. We've had an impeccable safety record throughout the fleet since the implementation of these machines. I find it far more probable that, regrettably, there was a mechanical fault with the vessel itself."

"So you put no stock in the notion that the automaton unit may have malfunctioned?"

"I do not. Although in truth you'd have to ask Villiers. He's the man who invented the things; he should be able to give you a better idea of their functions and limitations." He shrugged.

Henri placed her empty teacup on the table. "So, Mister Chapman, where would we find Mister Villiers?"

Chapman smiled, he looked to the chronometer on the wall, "Ten-thirty, he'll be in his workshop behind the mechanical works. I can take you there, if you like, by way of the manufactory?" He stood, not waiting for a reply. "What do you say; fancy a quick tour of the facility?"

Both Litefoot and Henri rose from their seats. Henri met Litefoot's eye. "Mister Chapman, I think that would be an excellent idea."

10. The Factory Floor

The hanger was cold and Henri hugged her jacket to herself, wishing she had thought to bring a shawl or a more substantial overcoat along with her that morning. Her breath fogged in the air before her face. She tried to avoid shivering.

They were standing on a steel walkway above the main factory floor, where the enormous shell of an atmotic ship gondola was currently under construction. It sat upon a large wooden pallet, squat in the centre of the massive room, scaffolds running over its surface like the strands of a vast spider's web, ensnaring the bowels of the partly-erected ship. Men buzzed around the skeleton of the vessel like worker ants, swarming up the sides of the scaffolds to place glass panes into the wooden window frames and pass doors, seats and other furnishings through to the workmen inside. Tools clattered loudly and men shouted to each other above the noise.

Henri stared down from the railing that ran along the side of the walkway. After her experience the previous day she found the sight of the unfinished gondola incredibly eerie, reminiscent of the smashed wreck of the _Lady_ _Charlotte_. Many of the fittings were the same as those she had seen inside the shattered vessel, and from where she was standing, the internal layout looked practically identical. She could hardly bear to look at the passenger cabin, with its row upon row of empty seats, without visualising the scene inside of the burnt-out ship; the blank, ruined faces of the dead staring back at her, accusingly. She fancied for a moment that she could still smell the stench of the wreck, the aroma of cooked human flesh assaulting her nostrils and palate. Her stomach heaved.

She shook her head, realising that she was gripping the railing tightly with both hands. She had a sudden, unnerving sense of vertigo, like she was tumbling over the railing towards the factory floor below. She closed her eyes. The moment passed. She caught her breath, drawing raggedly at the air. She knew it was no good giving in to melancholy. She had seen the results of that before, long ago with her mother. What was done was done, and now the most important thing was to find out who was responsible for the disaster, and if necessary, aid Litefoot in bringing them to justice. She breathed, calmly, and hoped that the others had not taken note of her momentary lapse.

She watched a man below struggling to carry a large mirror across the factory floor, wondering for a moment if the new ship was intended as a replacement for _Lady Charlotte_. She decided not; it was clearly too soon after the crash for the workman to be this advanced with the construction. She turned from the railing. "It is quite an operation you have here, Mister Chapman."

Chapman, who had been deep in conversation with Litefoot, turned and smiled. "Wait until you see the next hanger, Miss Jago. Now that's really something to behold." He nodded at the workmen down below. "Come on, let's get a closer look." He led them along the steel walkway, their feet clanging loudly against the metal flooring as they walked. They made their way down a series of steps at the far end of the hanger.

Chapman crossed the floor to where the men were working and clambered up onto the wooden pallet, peering into the shell of the new gondola. He seemed pleased.

Down at this level the air was filled with the smell of oil and wet paint, and the noise was tremendous; banging, sawing and shouting. There appeared to be an entire army of men at work. Litefoot counted at least ten of them, dancing around each other, ferrying components back-and-forth, their faces damp with perspiration and grime. Not one of them looked up from their work to eye the newcomers as Litefoot circled the construction, drinking it all in.

He looked up. High above them the red-brick walls turned to windows, allowing the natural light to seep in from outside. The roof was a skein of corrugated lead sheets, laid over a framework of wooden beams. The place was enormous, yet seemed bizarrely reduced by the sheer size of the gondola that was being erected inside of it.

Litefoot finished circling the pallet and then moved to stand beside Chapman, clapping a hand on his shoulder to get his attention. The other man, who had been standing with his hands on his hips admiring the work of his craftsmen, stepped back, leaning in to hear Litefoot's question.

"How long does it take you to build one of these? From start to finish, I mean?"

Chapman raised his voice so the other man could hear over the noise of the manufactory. "About three weeks. This is the smallest size in the fleet, a _Lady_-class vessel. The rest of the frame is being welded in the next hanger." He pointed to the other end of the vast room, where a huge archway led through to the next part of the site. Litefoot could just make out some of what was going on inside, with iron girders being lifted into place around a wooden frame, the entire construction apparently suspended from the ceiling.

"Three weeks? That seems awfully quick."

Chapman nodded. "I know. We've spent the last ten years perfecting the process, ironing out all of the wrinkles." He coughed, and seemed to consider searching out another cigarette, before quickly changing his mind. "This one's bound for India." He nodded at the gondola in front of them. "It'll be out of here in a couple of days. We'll have an automaton fly it over the water. That way there's no need for the pilot to come back again, you see." He smiled. "It's a good package. The new owner is provided with a fully trained pilot and we're not stuck ferrying people back-and-forth across the ocean."

Litefoot nodded, he could see the economy in the system. "I admire your business acumen, Mister Chapman. Your men certainly seem to know what they are doing." They regarded the workmen still scurrying to-and-fro all around them.

Litefoot glanced at Henri out of the corner of his eye. He could see that she was feeling uncomfortable being around another atmotic craft so soon after her visit to the crash site the previous day. He decided to hurry things along. "Are we ready to move on, Miss Jago? I'm anxious to see how the balloon itself is constructed."

Henri smiled thankfully. "Yes, indeed. Mister Chapman, please lead on."

They followed Chapman across the floor of the manufactory towards the archway and through to the next hanger. As they approached, Henri gasped in wonder at the sight. The space itself must have been twice the size of the previous room, opening out into a cavernous hall filled with several aspects of mechanical wonder and, at its heart, the massive skeletal frame of an atmotic craft's balloon. Light shone down from the windows above in great shafts, penetrating the gloom and picking out the swirling dust motes in the air. Litefoot stood beside Henri as they looked up in awe. The immense lozenge of the atmotic craft was clearly taking shape, suspended from the ceiling on an array of enormous mechanical arms. Iron girders were being welded into place around a wooden frame, hot sparks showering the room below in a series of glittering waterfalls. Men, tied into harnesses and dangling from roof joists, clambered around the structure, gas tanks strapped to their backs, welding torches clamped firmly in their gloved fists. Other men operated large crane-like machines, lifting the iron girders into place for their colleagues to weld. Litefoot had never seen anything like them; the operator sat inside a small cab on top of the machine, manipulating levers to control the arm, which terminated in a large claw used to grasp the iron girders and move them to precisely the required position. The machines themselves were fixed in place, bolted to the floor, and spluttered loudly as their steam engines turned over in the relatively enclosed space of the hanger. Chapman held his hands out, encompassing the scene before them. "Impressive, isn't it?"

Litefoot could not help but agree, "Magnificent; a remarkable achievement."

Chapman smiled. "It is rather." He rubbed his hands together in an unconscious gesture. "The difficulty, of course, is one of space. We have only enough room to assemble one vessel at a time. I've been thinking, recently, of constructing another facility on the other side of the river, but in truth the advent of the automaton business has rendered that superfluous, at least for now."

Henri was still regarding the enormous skeleton of the vessel suspended overhead. She glanced at Chapman. "Are the automatons also manufactured on the premises, Mister Chapman?"

"Indeed they are, Miss Jago. Although I feel I must warn you that the scale of the operation is hardly as impressive." He indicated the atmotic ship. "The technology is still relatively new, and the units are expensive to develop. Large-scale mass production is unfortunately some years away. Nevertheless, orders have been growing steadily and the production line has been constantly engaged since its inception." He cleared his throat. "We'll pass through the area on the way to see Villiers in a few moments."

Litefoot looked contemplative. "Tell me, Mister Chapman, why it is that a highly successful atmotic vessel business should make the move into artificial intelligences? I realise Dawlish has made great advances in artificial intelligences, but it strikes me that the two disciplines make strange bedfellows. Why invest in something so new and speculative?"

Chapman paused before responding, as if weighing the question. "On one hand, in Villiers, I had the expertise and the vision to pull it off, and on the other I saw the opportunity to make a return." He shook his head, not satisfied with his own answer. "No, it's more than that. After my father passed on, Doctor, I found myself in the enviable position of inheriting an industrial empire, and with it, a significant fortune. I could have taken the opportunity to live a life of pleasure, wasting my time dallying with insignificant trifles, spending my days lounging around my estate. I admit, for a while I was tempted. But I also knew that if I devoted my life to such lackadaisical pursuits I would soon shrivel up and die. I needed stimulation, and more, I had an overriding desire to aid progress. After meeting Villiers and being introduced to his revolutionary plans for a new breed of atmotic ship, I decided to invest a portion of my fortune in setting up this firm." He paused only momentarily, obviously in his stride. "I could see clearly, then, the impact that Villiers' incredible new designs would have on the air transportation industry, and, with time and a lot of hard work, my faith was proved right. _Chapman & Villiers Air Transportation Services_ became one of the most important atmotic ship operators in the world."

The others were listening intently. "So why risk that now? Why divert the resources of your successful company into something untested, unproven on the open market?"

Chapman shrugged. "Because I grew bored and because Villiers kept pushing forward, irrespective of finances, time, or effort. You'll understand that when you meet him. The man is fuelled by a passion for his work. He was like an unstoppable force, and it was only then, after watching him work himself into the ground, night-after-night, for months on end, that I finally realised how the automaton project could help us to fulfil our original ambition. I started to consider the almost limitless applications of these mechanical men. If they could learn to write they could be employed as clerks, if they could learn to cook they could replace servants, even, if we taught them the art of war, march into battle against the Empire's foes. Think how many needless deaths could be averted? Surely these remarkable devices could aid in the technological revolution of the Empire? Surely that could only be of benefit to the wider populace, freeing them from the tedium of household chores, leaving more time for education and other, more profitable enterprises? I think you'll see, when we have Villiers give us a demonstration of the units, what a spectacular revolution awaits us, just around the corner, when the world becomes truly aware of what it is we're doing here, in our little factory in Battersea."

Henri met Litefoot's eyes. "But Mister Chapman, what of the people pushed out by these automatons, and what of their families? If their jobs are taken away from them, to be replaced by these artificial men, many of them will be left destitute with no hope of finding other work. Surely that is not in the best interests of the Empire?"

Chapman nodded. "Yes. I too have concerned myself with that, Miss Jago. Yet… we should not – indeed _can_ not allow it to halt progress. Society will redress the balance, given time. Communities will change, and people will find worthwhile employ in any number of different industries. The automaton revolution will provide them with even more, new opportunities, and I'm convinced it will raise the standard of living across all classes throughout the entirety of the Empire."

Litefoot looked uncomfortable. "Grand claims indeed, Mister Chapman."

"Time will tell, Doctor, time will tell. But it is clear to me that you need to see one of these marvellous machines in action!" He was animated now, fired up on his own rhetoric. "Allow me to walk you through the automaton production site on our way to see Villiers. It's just this way…"

Litefoot arched an eyebrow at Henri and the two of them fell in behind Chapman as he continued his tour of the facility, picking a route through the array of spluttering machines that continued to swing iron girders into place high above their heads.

They passed along a corridor that stemmed off from the main atmotic ships works, eventually leading them to a small warehouse space that appeared to have been hastily converted into a heavy production line. Two large, steam-powered presses thumped with reassuring regularity, pushing out components in a variety of shapes and sizes, from brass arm braces and finger joints, to shiny torso plates and elaborate cogs. Men stood alongside the rolling conveyor belts that fed out from the machines, each one taking the components in turn and checking them for flaws, before placing them back onto the conveyors and sending them off to the assembly teams on the other side of the warehouse. There, small groups of men were busy welding the components together, testing the articulation of the joints and generally assembling the main frames of the automatons. The room was hot; bustling with people and filled with the smell of oil and steam.

Chapman paused in the doorway. "As you can see, the automaton production facility is still a relatively minor concern when considered alongside the main ship works, but in time, I have hopes that it will grow."

Litefoot paced alongside one of the presses, watching as the machine-head spun on its axis, pressing a new component from the mould on its fascia. He spoke to Chapman as they walked. "How many automatons does the facility produce in any given day?"

"Fully functioning units?" Litefoot nodded. "One or two, they can actually make upwards of ten frames on a good day, but Villiers himself installs the internal control systems, and it is delicate work. Any faster and we run the risk of jeopardising the integrity of the machines themselves, or risk damaging the complex mechanisms that make them run."

"I'm looking forward to meeting him. Villiers, that is."

"Let's see if he's here now. That's the door to his workshop." He waved to indicate the glass-panelled door up ahead. They approached, and Chapman rapped quickly on the glass before pushing the door open to reveal the workshop within.

The room was fairly small, after the grandeur of the ship hangers, and was cluttered with components and other mechanical ephemera; cogs, tools, automaton torsos, pages covered in elaborately scrawled designs, a model atmotic ship hanging from the roof. In truth, the room had as much of the feel of a laboratory as a workshop, the sort of place where scientific breakthroughs were commonplace and genius was taken for granted.

Villiers himself stood at his workbench, fiddling with a brass skull. He was wearing a brown leather smock, not unlike a butcher's apron, and had a magnifier flipped over his right eye on a wire frame, the base of which wrapped around his head like the crude frame of a hat. His hair was coarse and black and he was unshaven, with a vaguely dishevelled appearance. He was fairly short, although taller than Henri; his only concession or acknowledgement upon hearing them enter the room was to grunt at the automaton head he was holding and to choose not to look up from his work.

Chapman waited for a moment to see if his business partner would remember his manners, and then, when it was clear the other man intended to carry on regardless, trying to prise something free from within the brass head, he stepped forward, attempting to get Villiers attention. He cleared his throat. "Villiers. I'd like to introduce you to Doctor Litefoot, and his assistant, Miss Henrietta Jago. They're here on police business, investigating the atmotic ship crash I mentioned to you yesterday."

Villiers offered a half-shrug still facing his workbench, before continuing to dig around inside what appeared to be the brain cavity of the brass skull. There was an awkward silence. Then, a moment later, something popped free from inside the device and flew into the air, before falling to the floor by Henri's feet. Litefoot noted that it was a tiny gold lever of some sort. Villiers looked up, satisfied. "I am sorry, what were you saying my friend?"

He seemed to notice Litefoot and Henri for the first time. "Oh, please excuse me. I was lost in the middle of a delicate operation…" His accent was thick with a Parisian lilt. He placed the automaton head on his workbench, along with the tool he had been using.

Litefoot stepped forward, swapping his cane and his hand extended. "No need for apologies, Monsieur Villiers. I am Doctor Litefoot, and this is my assistant, Miss Henrietta Jago." Henri inched forward and Villiers took her hand, gently. "As your associate here intimated, we are working on behalf of the police. We would like to talk to you about your automaton devices and the atmotic ship crash that occurred yesterday at Mile End." He stopped for a moment, glancing around. "I must say, though, Monsieur Villiers. This truly is a remarkable workshop. A credit to you, I'm sure."

Villiers smiled. "Thank you, Docteur. I can spare a little while to talk, although I am sure my associate has already told you much the same as what you will hear from me."

Litefoot nodded. "Nevertheless, I do feel your opinions on the matter will be of use. Are you aware of the circumstances surrounding the crash?"

The Frenchman shrugged. "In as much as Monsieur Chapman told me yesterday."

"So you are aware that the automaton piloting the vessel appears to have gone missing from the wreckage?"

Villiers looked immediately uncomfortable. "Missing? No. Destroyed," he shrugged, "Perhaps? I know my creations, Doctor. There is no way the unit could have gone 'missing', unless someone spirited it away from the crash site for their own devices." Litefoot glanced at Henri. That was an option they had not yet considered. Henri was watching Chapman, trying to gauge his reaction to Villiers' words.

"So what do you believe happened, Monsieur Villiers? Did the automaton malfunction and cause the crash?"

"Impossible. There is no capacity for the units to malfunction. Physically, they can only function if their program is loaded correctly. They operate on a series of punched discs, much in the vein of Lady Lovelace's punch cards of years gone. If the disc does not engage, the unit will immediately freeze. If that were the case with the pilot of the _Lady Charlotte_, the vessel would have never even taken off in the first instance." He stopped, stroking his stubble-encrusted chin. "My assumption is that the vessel itself was at fault. Perhaps one of the steering pulleys had come loose, causing the mechanism to lose tension? If that were the case the vessel would have been practically uncontrollable, and in high winds it could have easily been knocked off course."

Henri crossed her arms. "As I understand it though, Monsieur Villiers, the skies were calm yesterday morning. Otherwise the fog would not have settled on the city as it did."

Villiers shrugged. "Then it is a matter for the police to decide what occurred. I am in the dark. Whatever the case, I understand it was a terrible accident, and for that I am truly sorry." He paused. "I assure you, however, that the source of the problem is with the vessel, and not with the pilot." He regarded them sternly.

Litefoot decided to change the subject. "So, Monsieur Villiers, what of your exile from Paris and the claims that you experimented on wastrels-"

"Come now, Doctor, is this really necessary?" Chapman cut in, clearly trying to come to the aid of his friend.

"It's alright, Joseph." Villiers seemed unmoved by the question. He faced Litefoot. "What of it? It was a long time ago, Docteur, and very much a part of my past. I have spent the last decade in London, working to revolutionise the aeronautical industry with Monsieur Chapman. I no longer even think of Paris, and consider London my home."

Litefoot nodded. "Very well Monsieur Villiers." He noted that the Frenchman had chosen not to refute the claims. The man's arrogance was obvious, but not without foundation. He softened his tone. "So what inspired you to begin developing a new type of automaton, after years of designing atmotic ships? Mister Chapman tells me you worked day and night to achieve your goal."

Villiers looked circumspect. "In truth, I have always dreamed of building the perfect automaton. For years I have strived to reach this stage, and it was only when this atmotic ship business had established itself and the manufacturing process had been automated, that I found myself with the time and resources to realise my dream." He glanced at Chapman. "Once my friend and I began discussing the application of these units – household servants, drivers, soldiers and clerks – we agreed it was time for our business to diversify. The added benefit, of course, was that the machines could be taught to fly the fleet of ships we had spent the last ten years establishing."

"It is an impressive achievement indeed, Monsieur Villiers. So tell me, are the units intelligent, self-aware?"

Villiers shook his head. "No, unlike those of Dawlish, they are not sentient in their own right, nor do they exhibit signs of sentience. They are simply machines that operate according to a complex set of algorithms and programs. Have you seen one operating?"

It was now Litefoot's turn to shake his head, "Not of this type."

Chapman interrupted. "I was hoping that you would be able to give our guests a demonstration, Pierre?"

"Of course, allow me to do so now." He moved over to the corner of the workshop where, Henri realised for the first time since entering the room, an automaton was sitting in a chair, its head bowed.

Villiers stood before it, "Rise." His voice was a firm, emotionless command. The unit's head jerked up at the sound of Villiers' voice, and it quickly rose to its feet. "Follow." He turned and walked back across the workshop towards them. The automaton followed suit, stepping forward into the light. The two visitors looked on, transfixed with wonder. The automaton was about the size of a man, skeletal, with a solid torso formed from interlocking breast and back plates. Its eyes were little mirrors that spun constantly on an axis, reflecting back the lamp-light. Its mouth was nothing but a thin slot and its remaining features were engraved into the otherwise blank mask of its face. In its chest a glass plate revealed, like a tiny porthole, a flickering blue light, dancing like an electric current. Its brass frame shimmered in the light, and it moved like a human being, its joints all fully articulated, as it strode across the room towards them. Its joints creaked as it walked and its brass feet clicked on the tiled floor of the workshop. It stopped about two paces behind Villiers and cocked its head to one side, regarding them silently.

Chapman clapped his hands. Litefoot and Henri looked on, feeling a little unnerved.

Villiers turned to the automaton. "Pick up that glass tumbler and pour me a brandy." He pointed across the room at a small table which held the tumbler and a decanter, amongst other detritus. The automaton set to work immediately, crossing the room with a fluid gait, avoiding a pile of machine parts on the floor and approaching the table with the utmost precision. Taking care, it reached down and picked up the glass between its brass fingers – which, Litefoot noticed, were affixed with little leather pads to prevent them from shattering the tumbler – and poured a measure of brandy from the decanter. A moment later it strode back across the workshop to offer Villiers his drink without ever spilling a drop.

Litefoot was astounded. "Bravo. Bravo indeed!" He glanced from Villiers to Chapman and back again. "This is indeed a revolutionary invention. What else can it do?" He was clearly enthused.

Villiers smiled. He took the drink from the automaton and pointed to a chair by his desk. "Take a seat." The automaton did as requested, positioning itself as if ready to receive further instructions. Villiers crossed to the desk himself, with Litefoot close behind him, and searched out a letter. He placed this on a stand in front of the automaton, beside a typewriter on the desk. "Copy this." He indicated the sheet for the mechanical man. The automaton did not respond, its only movement the continual spinning of its mirrored eyes and the flickering of the iridescent light inside its chest.

"Ah. Please forgive me." Villiers handed his brandy to Litefoot and leaned over his desk. He pulled open a drawer, pulling out a stack of program discs. He rifled through, finally selecting one and brandishing it before the others. "This particular unit has yet to learn how to carry out this task."

He pressed a panel on the back of the automaton and it swung open easily, revealing some of the unit's internal workings. Litefoot peered inside, fascinated. "Tell me, Monsieur Villiers, how does it learn? I was under the impression from your earlier comments that the device lacks its own intelligence, although it certainly appears to respond to complex voice commands."

Villiers took the disc and fed it into a slot within the back of the machine. "As I mentioned earlier, Docteur, the automaton operates on a series of predetermined programs. These programs are expressed as a series of discs that the internal mechanisms of the device can interpret and enact. The device has the capacity to file up to twenty-eight of these discs at anyone time on a revolving spindle, and when asked to perform a task it will check the programs stored on its spindle and see if the correct one is in its repertoire. If so, it will retrieve the card and carry out the task. If not," he shrugs, "well, you've seen the reaction in that situation…"

Litefoot shook his head in disbelief. "A machine that learns…"

Villiers clicked the panel shut. He repeated his earlier command. "Copy that."

There was a whirring sound from within the chest of the automaton. Then, suddenly, its hands blurred over the keys of the typewriter and within a matter of seconds the entire page had been typed. Litefoot leaned forward, taking the page from the top of the typewriter and comparing it to the original letter. It was identical, in every respect, even to the extent of recreating an error, where a misspelled word had been omitted with a row of x.

"Miss Jago, have you seen this?" He held the pages up for her. "It's identical." He turned to Villiers. "What, it must be ten times faster than a human being?"

"Undoubtedly so," Villiers shrugged, "Maybe faster."

Litefoot shook his head. He was quite lost for words. Henri studied the two copies of the letter. "It's certainly very impressive." She seemed hesitant to be carried away by the spectacle.

Litefoot was in his element. "Monsieur Villiers, tell me about the power source."

Villiers was obviously enjoying the attention. "The device is designed around the principle of perpetual motion. When the automaton moves, a rotor inside its abdomen rocks back-and-forth, ratcheting the winding mechanism and causing the mainspring in the chest to become taut. Effectively, the unit is self-winding, and thus it will never power down, unless commanded to do so. If left inactive for long periods without instruction, the unit will eventually move itself to trigger the winding mechanism."

"So it goes for a little stroll?" Henri looked at the automaton warily. "It certainly..." she paused, trying for a suitable word, "_seems _intelligent, Monsieur Villiers."

"Thank you Miss Jago, a compliment indeed. The entire purpose of an automaton is to give the impression of intelligence, maintaining the illusion whilst the workings of the device are kept hidden from the audience."

"What are those workings, Monsieur Villiers? We have seen the mechanism that enables the device to be programmed, but how does it come to understand your voice commands, or interpret the input from its mirrored eyes?"

"Ah, well, that is the secret, is it not?" Villiers put his hand on his hips. "The device is fitted with an incredibly complex mechanism that mimics the neurological structures of a human brain. It makes judgments by asking itself a series of logical questions and interpreting the results, enabling it to select a course of action. For example," he leaned on the back of the automaton's chair, "if the device were commanded to walk across this workshop, it would automatically find a route around the workbench there, without having to walk into it or attempting to clamber over it. This is achieved through a series of logical questions that the unit's brain is designed to follow. What will happen if the unit walks into the workbench? How will walking into the workbench prevent it from achieving its goal? What is the quickest alternative route to its destination? Switches trigger inside the brain to enable the automaton to settle on the most effective solution to each question, thus deciding its route around the workbench. In this instance the unit would obviously decide to alter its course, rather than face potential damage by walking into an immovable object." Villiers smiled, obviously pleased with himself. Henri looked back at Chapman, who had taken a seat by the door and was also smiling as he watched the others receive their lecture from his friend. He had struck a match and was in the process of lighting a cigarette. The glare of the flame cast his face in stark relief.

Litefoot placed his hand on the automaton's head. "Can we see? I'd very much appreciate an opportunity to take a look inside this remarkable contraption."

Villiers nodded, and went to fetch a tool to open up the automaton's skull.

Henri took the opportunity to catch Litefoot's eye, and he smiled knowingly. He was allowing himself a moment of indulgence, but she knew from the look in his eye that he would not allow himself to get carried away. He was ready and alert, and absorbing everything.

Villiers returned and set to work on the automaton's head. It was the work of moments to unclip the skull cap and unscrew the safety catch that gave access to the unit's mechanical brain. Both Litefoot and Henri could not help but gasp at the sight revealed when the plate was lifted away. The automaton's brain was like the workings of some incredible watch, only orders of magnitude bigger and more complex. They both leaned in, watching the cogs and levers as they ticked over, tiny switches flicking from one position to another as the automaton regarding its surroundings. It was like seeing human thought processes in action, like some sort of bizarre window into the human soul. In some ways it was disturbing, to see a creation so complex and wondrous yet without feeling, lacking the spark of life. On the other hand, Litefoot was amazed to consider that the human brain, it could be argued, was nothing but the same as this incredible device, a series of clockwork switches and cogs rendered flesh and blood. He watched for a moment longer, intrigued by the ticking of the tiny mechanical components as the automaton sat unmoving before them, unaware that they were looking deep into the very fabric of its being.

Villiers stepped in and replaced the skull cap. "We must not leave the internal components exposed to the air for too long. Moisture affects the workings and the tiny mechanisms can become clogged with dust from the air."

Litefoot stood back, watching appreciatively as Villiers used his tool to replace the fittings. "I must thank you for your demonstration, Monsieur Villiers. It has been quite enlightening."

Henri nodded her agreement. "Yes, thank you for your time. The experience has left me feeling quite breathless." She turned to Litefoot. "Is there anything further you require of Mister Chapman or Monsieur Villiers, Doctor?"

Litefoot looked thoughtful. He turned to Chapman. "I do not believe there is. If you would be kind enough to escort us back to your office, Mister Chapman, Miss Jago and I will take our leave. I daresay you have pressing business to attend to."

Chapman stood, inclining his head. "Of course, Doctor. It has been a pleasure to show such an enthusiastic visitor around our humble business." He beckoned them towards the door.

Litefoot turned to Villiers and shook his hand firmly, "Fascinating work, Monsieur. I do hope we meet again."

He allowed Henri to go ahead of him, and together they made their way back towards the office complex, leaving Villiers alone with his clockwork automaton, and his thoughts.

Outside, the afternoon was turning to twilight as Litefoot and Henri approached the Doctor's car. Litefoot had offered Henri his coat to stave off the chill, and as they reached the small car she turned to regard him. The sound of the foghorns on the river made it difficult to hear.

Litefoot opens the door and Henri embarks, "I did not realise we had been in there so long," Litefoot closed the door and headed around the front of the vehicle, he clambered into the driver's seat, "So, what next? Do you think Chapman and Villiers have anything to hide?"

Litefoot closed the door and fired up the ignition, the fluid coal internal-combustion engine catching on the first attempt. Whilst waiting for the engine to warm up, Litefoot breathed out, "I suspect they have a great deal to hide, but whether it pertains to either case in hand, I remain unsure." He ran a hand over his chin. "I need time to consider our findings. I admit I find it difficult to see evidence of foul play. Unless you can offer any further insights that you think I may have missed?"

Henri shook her head. "I do not believe so. I remain wary of Mister Chapman. I find him both insincere and egotistical. I do believe he was holding something back."

Litefoot agreed. "Indeed. There is clearly more to the man than meets the eye. He obviously believes himself to be a great philanthropist, or at least wishes to paint that picture of himself to others. He delivered his message with a little too much zeal for my own particular tastes."

Henri pulled Litefoot's coat around herself. "Do you think the automaton demonstrations have helped to shed a light on the disaster surrounding the _Lady Charlotte_? I singularly failed to see the significance of anything they showed us, as spectacular as it all was."

Litefoot thought on this. "I believe they succeeded in demonstrating how unlikely it is that the automaton itself malfunctioned. Although I'll admit I'm still baffled as to what happened to it after the vessel had crashed. I wonder if there is any stock in what Villiers suggested, about someone spiriting it away before the authorities arrived."

"I wondered the same. Perhaps it's best we speak with Inspector Hawthorne again, to see if Inspector Foulkes has turned up any further evidence from the area around the scene?"

Litefoot seemed distracted. He glanced out of the window. "Indeed. No doubt we will speak with both of the aforementioned gentlemen in due course." He seemed to relax a little. "Tomorrow I shall pay a visit to William Madsen. It has been a difficult couple of days, Miss Jago, and I have no doubt that you would benefit greatly from a day of rest." He smiled, waving his hand to stifle her objections. "Besides, it'll give me a little more time to ponder our next move."

Henri sighed. "Very well; let us agree, then, that you will call for me if there are any new developments. We can not have you charging in alone."

Despite himself Litefoot laughed. "Indeed not, Miss Jago. That would never do." He continued to chuckle as he drove the small car towards Limehouse and home.

11. Blood Ties

_Scotland Yard_

In the basement offices and workshop of William Madsen, Doctor Litefoot perused the autopsy file of Lord Henry de Salem wondering at apparent inconsistencies as the artificer prepares another pot of Earl Grey.

"So you say that the pilot ran on a set programme?"

Litefoot looked up from his reading, "Well yes, but then everything and everyone does surely."

"Perhaps, but do not call me Shirley."

"I beg your pardon."

Madsen shook his head with a smile, "Nothing of importance. You were saying that we are all running some programme."

"Ah, well the way this Villiers fellow described it, the disc has nodules and pits set in a specific pattern that produces the requisite results. Personally I can not see how a series of deformations can be equated to a sequence of actions, but then to the untaught, so does the internal anatomy of a human seem to be a miracle. The automaton he showed was truly magical. You should have seen it William."

"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic; any technology distinguishable from magic is insufficiently advanced; any technology, no matter how primitive, is magic to those who do not – or can not – understand it." Madsen sniffed, "Jabir bin Haygan during the European so-called Dark Ages reasoned that if an atom can be divided it will release enough power to destroy even the great city of Cairo – at that time, cancers of the body, eye surgery, preventative medicine, hygiene, anaesthetics and sterilisation and cleanliness all known to the 'savages' of the Middle East. This was during the _First_ Crusade, the first decades of the twelfth century. Yet only now are _we_ in that position, we who claim to be civilised and advanced."

"I do not think I have heard of this Jabir…"

"Jabir bin Haygan." Madsen scoffed, "Why should you? When he was mummified alive for claiming to be immortal, most records of him were lost."

Litefoot blinked, "But how…"

"Even with the most dedicated of purges, something always remains. Take these programming discs," he lifted a brass disc of the type used in most computators, "They are what, four-and-three-quarter inches in diameter and an eighth of an inch thick? A massive amount of data is encoded on this small bit of metal – the equivalent of several thick volumes of printed tomes, maybe even a library's worth, for example – in microscopic pits and nodules that are read by the computator. To be rewritten the pits and nodules need to be removed. This is achieved by careful melting, cooling and regrinding of the surface to produce a blank." Litefoot nodded a vague comprehension, "This obviously requires specialist tools and machinery, like the brute over there," Madsen indicated a tower unit wired to a control panel, "that, if given the proper instructions, can do it automatically. Of course if you or I tried to do it without such 'assistance', the result would be imperfect and you get this," he passed the disc he was holding to Litefoot. "It appears as smooth and unblemished as a fresh blank, correct?"

"I will take your word for it." Litefoot passed the disc back unsure as to what he was looking at or for.

"Fair enough," Madsen nodded and cleared his throat, "But if you look at it obliquely under light," Litefoot did as he is directed, turning the disc under the lights marvelling at the spectrum of reflective colour, "You can see the indentation and thus traces of the original programming data. With the right equipment, and a little intuition, it is possible to piece together as much of the original as possible. If you know where and _how_ to look, much that is thought entirely lost can be recovered."

"I see. So bin Haygan and Mortimus or Khemosiri…"

"Are one in the same, yes."

"So how does this help track down Mister Jago and my father?"

Madsen offered a slight laugh that degenerated into a smoker's cough. Once the fit finished, he took a drink of tea, and swung his chair around to the desk to retrieve a ledger, "Well by looking in the correct places, I believe I have information on McGeehan his links to the death in Persia, and those of Wooster and his secretary and his apparent link to de Salem's murder and the _Lady Charlotte _crash."

Litefoot was in awe, "All this in the course of an afternoon?"

Madsen wheeled his chair around, "As I say; _if_ you know where to look…" He passed the ledger to Litefoot. "According to the shipping inventory of _Chapman & Villiers Air Transportation Services_ amongst the cargo was a single crate destined for one Lord de Salem of 'artefacts recovered' during his expedition in Persia. Oddly oblique, it refers only to," he tapped the attached print-off, "Assorted semi-precious stones. Given the quantity, it seems anomalous for the expedition not to have bought them back."

"Perhaps the expedition's return flight was already at maximum weight limit."

"Maybe, but an extra twenty pounds seems inconsequential when there is a buffer of nine _hundred_ pounds." Madsen shook his head, "I can not see de Salem baulking at paying the excess weight payment of a few shillings either. Besides, you read the announcement of his return. There was no indication that he was expecting more materials to be carried."

Litefoot looked at the relevant area of the page of inventory. "Twenty pounds… the crate and packing materials are what seventeen to eighteen pounds?" Madsen nods, "So maybe two or three pounds of gems… the weight Miss Khorsandi described for the stolen artefact was just over two!"

"So much for coincidence," Madsen took a further drink of tea, "Anyway, there were also packages from someone called Wragg embarked and destined for Jago at the Palace Theatre via Wooster's Costumiers. Thus, it is possible that the packages were either deliberately or mistakenly transposed."

"So Mister Jago's involvement is entirely accidental?"

"Perhaps not, Grey and Bryson are from Division Q."

"Would they be responsible for the theft in Persepolis and the murders?"

"Theft; yes, but not the murders," He paused, "Not unless ordered otherwise."

"So what is Division Q?"

Madsen smiled, "Come now Doctor, surely you know better than to ask?" Litefoot nodded reluctantly, Madsen rarely used his professional title in private. "But I do owe your father my life…" Madsen pondered, "To Hades with it, your father and Henry deserve better." He rubbed his forehead. "Division Q is merely a cover for the Counter-Intrusion Group. Formed by government in 1861, CIG was merely an arm of the Metropolitan Police, now we operate across the country and empire. We take action against covert threats to British soil and investigate crimes beyond the reach for regular police forces." Madsen drained the last of his tea. "Chief Inspector Lomax, drafted specialists such as your father and me to assist when and where possible." Madsen coughed, "CIG also operates a small armed force to fight the more – militant – threats. Part of _my _remit is to supply Section 9 with weapons that look like standard issue… often we have to operate in plain-sight. There _are_ laws against military activity within England's borders after all."

"If there is so much secrecy surrounding the Counter-"

"Counter-Intrusion Group."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Madsen looked Litefoot squarely in the eyes, "With your father missing, Lomax wants you to take his place in our ranks." Madsen pulled out another folder, "You have the requisite knowledge and experiences, an open enough mind to comprehend what is expected and what is involved and," he took a deep breath, "like it or not, you _are_ involved deeply in this case."

"What of Miss Jago?"

"I do not know. I shall have to consult with my superiors."

Litefoot attempted to assimilate the information about the case and the revelation about his father's apparent government service. He studied the CIG case folder and extrapolated, "Someone wanted to get this Scarab out of Persia, so they stage a theft and somehow arrange to get it shipped out using the cover of Lord de Salem's returning expedition. Then, rather than risking it being delivered to Lord de Salem, they secrete the package into the one from Julien Wragg's business with the probable intent of diverting the shipment once in this country. However, the package goes to Henry Jago of the Palace Theatre before it can be intercepted."

Madsen smiled, "You have come up with a far more plausible theory in minutes than anyone in Section 5 has in days. It is probable that events moved faster than were planed for. Wragg's shipment was originally intended to be aboard the _Lady Charlotte_ but part of it was sent earlier due to some reason."

Litefoot thought for a moment trying to piece together some form of continuity, "So Wragg was killed because someone found that the shipment had been had left days earlier than planned, and thinks he is involved in…"

"Attempting to steal the already stolen artefact," Madsen finished, "When they find that the shipment had already been made, they track it down to Wooster link and target him."

Litefoot paused, "But we are no closer to ascertaining who this someone is."

"Maybe we do – someone you know."

Litefoot was troubled, "McGeehan?"

"Given what he did to de Salem, it is possible he is responsible. The crime scenes where identical; the victim crucified upside down, arms ripped out of their socket and skull stove in by what appears a single punch."

Litefoot felt the bile rise and what was inflicted on two men and the poor Miss Wormwood – and who knew what had happened to Wooster? "Dear Lord, I had better… Miss Jago is in danger!" He scrambled to his feet. "Thank you William," The two men shook hands, "I must ensure Miss Jago's safety." He heads out of the door as fast as possible.

In the yard outside as he opened the door to his car, a female voice with a slight Teutonic-accent sounded from behind him, "Doktor Litefűt?"

Litefoot turned, "Litef_oo_t; yes?"

A woman dressed almost entirely in black stepped forward, "Herr Doktor, I believe you know," she paused with a cold smile, "Fräulein Jago?"

Litefoot's eyes widened at the implied threat, "Yes! Why?"

The woman snapped her fingers and Litefoot felt a sharp blow to the back of his head and he succumbed to the deep blackness of unconsciousness.

_Limehouse_

Henri had woken early and decided that, after breakfast, she would head straight to her father's office. There had been no word from Doctor Litefoot and whilst she was anxious to find out if there had been any further developments in the case, she knew she would be of little use at soliciting further information from Mister – Sergeant, she corrected herself, Madsen at the Yard. Yet she wanted to press Litefoot to speak with Inspector Hawthorne, to find out if Inspector Foulkes had managed to uncover anything further at the scene of the crash.

Following her trip to the manufactory yesterday, Henri was still engaged with the notion that the vessel's automaton pilot may have crawled its way out of the wreckage, scrabbling away into the trees before anyone else arrived at the scene. It was not too an outlandish idea; the automaton she had seen demonstrated had a hardy skeletal structure and, damaged but still functional, she could see how the unit may have found itself confused, climbing out of the ruined cockpit before its more delicate components were consumed by the heat and the flames. Perhaps it had lain there inactive for some time, before its pre-programmed systems engaged and it had been driven to move, not in an effort to escape the fire but simply because it was compelled to start the winding mechanism within its chest, as Villiers had described to them during the demonstration in his workshop. She would discuss these thoughts with Litefoot at length when he arrived at the theatre.

Henri pulled back the curtains in her living room, glad once more that her mother was visiting her sister, Henri's aunt, Cynthia in Peckham and looked out over the street. The sun was only just poking up over the clouds, but already the high street was bustling with people. Mechanical carriages trundled rudely along the road, puffing clouds of steam high into the air, their drivers shouting down at pedestrians to make way. She shook her head. She could not understand this obsession with progress. Of course, automata were marvellous inventions, but she could not help wondering what would happen to all of the people they would displace if they were ever properly applied to industrial work in the city. Dawlish had proven his designs of automated mining tools, who knew where it would stop; automata composers and artists, automata actors, actresses and performers? Besides, London was a city still finding its way towards the glistening and much heralded twentieth century even now nine years away. In her eyes, before there could be any major scientific revolutions, there were other more-pressing social inadequacies in need of resolving. For a country ruled by a woman, Britain was still a nation in awe of its men.

Stepping away from the window, Henri made her way to the small kitchen and put a flame to the grill. She would take her toast and tea, and then, without further ado, she would hail a cab to the theatre and allow her head to be filled with the details of the case.

_Unknown_

Litefoot woke with a start.

He sucked at the air, his head was throbbing and he gingerly fingered the slight, but tender lump on his crown, "I - apologise - if - my - associate - was - aggressive." Each word punctuated by a wet wheezing.

Litefoot struggled to a more upright sitting position on the leather chair; the room was darkened by curtains pulled half-closed over a number of the windows. In the half-gloom, Litefoot could make out that the room was large and well-furnished. There was movement in the shadows interposed by a clattering of wheels and grinding of machinery. "Where am I?"

"Miss - Dixon - should - simply - have - asked - you - as - I - suggested - and - asked - you - to - accompany - her."

Litefoot grimaced as he surmised the identity of the room's other occupant. "Sir Charles Havelock?"

"Very - good - Doctor," Sir Charles wheeled about of the half-gloom, still within the shadows. "You - are - a - man - direct - and - to - the - point."

Litefoot focused on the industrialist now, trying to make him out in the shadowy half-light of the room. Then he burst into the half-light, he was sat in a life-giving chair, the pumps and bellows wheezing noisily as they artificially inflated lungs, heaving his chest back and forth alarmingly as they forced him to breathe, artificially sustaining his life – if this could be called life. Tubes coiled from the bags of strange-coloured fluid that were attached to a metal frame above his head, pumping preservatives, saline and other, more unusual compounds into his bloodstream. His chest was covered by a swathe of white fabric stained with dribbles of indecent concoctions, but Litefoot could see where the tubing snaked from the tanks at the back of his chair, up under his arms and into the chest, just below the breast. Havelock was either directly or indirectly owner and operator of half the Empire, and he clearly was not going to give it up without a fight, at least not whilst he had the unholy machines of Doctor Ivanov to keep him alive indefinitely.

"These - are - also - apologies - due - you - for - McGeehan's - actions."

Litefoot blinked with pain and confusion, "McGeehan? You know Malcolm?"

Havelock's cadaverous face split in a smile, "Of - course," Havelock wheeled closer, almost threateningly, Litefoot could smell the foul combination of bodily excretions, the strange fluids pumping and leaking around his body and the stench of disease and decay, "Who - do - you - think - paid - for - his - resurrection?"

Litefoot could see Havelock even more clearly now, the emaciated industrialist was lashed into the chair, his stick-thin legs bound together, his arms – augmented by brass and wooden frames – free and resting on the wooden handles that enabled him to rotate the wheels of the contraption. The two enormous tubes protruding from his chest, folding around beneath his arms, connected to large tanks of air that were mounted on the back of the chair. Bellows were affixed to the flanks of the chair and ground nosily as they laboured with the pressure, forcing air from the tubes in-and-out of his collapsed lungs. His chest rose and fell in time with the machines. The drip fed a strange, pinkish liquid – Litefoot suddenly drew the connection, the same pink liquid he had seen seep from McGeehan's animated corpse _and_ Madsen partake – into his bloodstream via a catheter in his arm. His skin was pale, the colour of a dead fish where it was not bruised from injections or ripped asunder for implants. Havelock's hair sprouted in wispy greasy grey tendrils and his eyes, though quick and intelligent, were blackened, bloodshot and as sunken as his cheeks.

Havelock wheeled his chair around, retreating once more to the shadows, "Doctor - Litefoot - I have - your - father."

Litefoot's jaw dropped in shock, "What?" his head felt as though it was starting to waft in the intoxicating haze.

The life-preserving machinery laboured in the semi-darkness, hissing and wheezing as the bellows rose and fell in time with the toilsome breathing of its occupant. There is suddenly a wet, spluttering cough, the machine hissed and groaned as it strained to compensate for the brief fit. Havelock's chest heaved, his lungs filling with oxygen. The action seemed to have the desired effect, "I - have - your - father - and - Jago. They - had - stolen - something - of - mine - and - I - simply - want - it - back."

"What could they possibly have of yours?"

Havelock had another coughing fit, this one much harsher and longer. He beckoned someone forward as one of his minions wheeled the industrialist out to some horrendous ministrations. It turned out to be the same woman who approached Litefoot as he left Scotland Yard; instinctively he moved a hand to cover his head.

"Fear not Doktor," her voice was sharp and forceful, "I half no wish to hurt you – again." Litefoot managed a look at the woman, 'Miss Dixon' was dressed in a black, military-style trouser suit, her angular face as sharp as her voice, her long blonde hair braided into a waist-length pony-tail. Her blue eyes as cold as the ice chips they resembled, "Herr Ya-go took receipt of an item Sir Charles ordered _unt_ _paid_ for." Her eyes narrowed. "When asked for it, he refused."

Litefoot felt troubled by this, "What is this 'item'?"

"Sir Charles is a dying man,_ unt_, against God's will" Dixon dipped her head, "Has been this way for fifteen years."

"Fifteen years?" Litefoot turned pale, "Fifteen years in that condition?"

"Eventually ya, by shear willpower and Doktor Ivanov's work; Sir Charles has survived thirteen years beyond diagnosis." Dixon sat opposite Litefoot, her knee-high leather boots creaking slightly. "By using his vast resources, Sir Charles followed a record of life-preserving altar from an ancient race." She took a deep breath in, "In the early days, Sir Charles tracked the altar _unt_ he found it. It prolonged his life for fourteen years, but he is a dying man Herr Doktor. For the altar to function fully he needs the Ska-reb ball; the ball taken in Persepolis, _unt _stolen by Herr Jago _unt_ your father," She attempted to feign warmth. "Sir Charles meant for the altar only for the betterment of mankind."

"If he truly wanted the betterment of mankind, why wait until he is diagnosed with a terminal condition?" Litefoot sniffed, "Those who amass great fortunes and then spend _some_ on a vague philanthropic project only desire to assuage a guilty conscience. If Sir Charles _were_ a true philanthropist, he would not have a 'great fortune' to donate built entirely upon exploitation of Mother Nature and that selfsame humanity he claimed to be acting for." Litefoot coughed with the dryness in the air, "Any true philanthropist should merely retain enough of a stipend upon which to subsist. Instead many of them donate barely that month's bank interest. Your lauded Sir Charles arranged for a theft and is no doubt responsible for at least five deaths. It strikes me, this claim of aiding humanity is to hide that he wants the altar for his own needs."

Dixon blinked, "Of course Herr Doktor. Why should not Sir Charles benefit?"

Litefoot shook his head and instantly regretted it, "Don't you see Miss Dixon? He has killed in the pursuit of this altar. Surely those killed in this chase deserved to live."

Dixon remained impassive, "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few."

Litefoot sighed, "Spoken like a true Leveller."

"So what if I am? Do you ever wonder why one child eats off a sliver platter _unt_ sleeps warm under a woollen blanket, while another goes hungry to a bed filled with a dozen others equally desperate? Do you ever wonder what discrepancy is fate, motivation or resolve leads to the terrible disparities in this world of ours?"

Litefoot often heard similar arguments during his short service in the Royal Army Medical Corps from privates twice his age or more who had little skill or inclination to learn any skill beyond the rifle who believed they could do a better job than some titled, double-barrelled general whose closest call to a rifle came on a pheasant shoot. Admittedly, Litefoot thought, there could be some truth in the notion that staff officers had little idea of life on the front lines but if everyone had a fully equal say and every action was put to the vote, nothing would ever get done; too many Indians and not enough Chiefs or something. He shook his head carefully, "The theory of every man, woman and child on this Earth being equal is precluded by Darwin."

Dixon looked questioningly at Litefoot, "Why Darwin?"

"Because humanity _will not_ work that way without another evolutionary step, humanity can not evolve without some environmental need – the ice caps expand or recede requiring greater or lesser body hair, sea levels rise and we all need gills," Litefoot chuckled, "The point is, until each man _feels_ the pain he inflicts as keenly as he feels his own – until I punch you in the face and _both_ our noses shatter – we are all doomed to carry on down the road we are on."

Dixon sniffed, "Well, Doktor, I am a woman; I can _empathise_ with another's pain."

Litefoot coughed his disapproval, "Empathy is one thing, _experiencing _is something entirely different. Studies show everyone experiences events differently. A lawyer friend once said; 'ask seven eyewitnesses to the same crime what they saw and you will hear seven different stories'."

Dixon seemed troubled by this. "So what you are saying is that the human race will never change?"

"Without some major environmental change, the human race will _never_ change. History is replete with conquering and bloodshed, all in the name of progress. All that has progressed is the methods of slaughter." Litefoot was close to getting annoyed, "Atmotic ships – heralded as _the_ way to travel, saw service with the military on bombing raids before any saw civilian service, these new atmotic 'planes' – how long before they are fitted with machine guns and bomb racks? How long, how long do _you_ give it before this rejuvenation chamber is turned to warfare? Generals seem to think little of the men under there command as it is, how much less considerate will they be if the dead can be bought back at the flick of a switch?"

"Do _you _not think Doktor, that once the Generals and others realise that the slaughter of war is as truly pointless as the pacifists would have us believe then they will reconsider and reject their warlike ways?"

"No, from the way you said 'pacifists' you can not think that way either. Regardless, I can not see how the murders of Wooster, Lord de Salem and the others can be justified."

"Lord de Salem believed he had more of a claim to the altar _unt_ ska-reb simply because he had used it seven centuries ago."

"Seven centuries?"

Dixon nodded, "Ya, evidence Lord de Salem was involved with the altar back in the twelfth century came straight from the mouth of the horse; I believe you say. Before Lord de Salem set off on his latest expedition, Sir Charles had me approach him requesting that Lord de Salem look for _unt_ sell him the jewel. Lord de Salem knew exactly of what Sir Charles spoke, he had seen it seven hundred years ago _unt_ was himself searching for the altar _unt_ jewel. He offered Sir Charles money for the altar as its magics were fading-"

Cracks of rifle fire and howls of rage interrupt the woman from continuing. Dixon leapt to her feet and draws a heavy pistol from a holster in the small of her back under her coat, "_Halten sie!_ Stay here!" She ran out of the door, Litefoot stood and limped to the door – his cane nowhere to be seen. The door slammed shut and there was the sound of the lock being thrown. Litefoot was a prisoner in the half-gloom of this room.

Litefoot looked about the room; the bookcases were crammed with hundreds of volumes, thick with dust, unread for years perhaps decades. The wooden floor was scuffed and marked by the wheels of Havelock's chair. Litefoot made his way to the desk.

In the top drawer, there was a blueprint of some intricately carved, long box, heavily annotated and well studied. There were also diagrams of what appeared to be a jade cricket ball. Litefoot briefly considered purloining the document but realised that it could be discovered missing and he had no idea when or even if he would be released and to what use it could be put. Under the sheets of paper was a strange, wand-like device with a faded and scuffed gloss black enamel-like covering. Litefoot turned it over in his hands, catching the small switch without realising. The device emitted a high-pitched shriek emitted from what looked like a blue glass crystal at one end and one of the desk drawers unlocked. Litefoot shut the device off and looked to the door. He closed the desk up and, still holding the device, stood stiffly and moved cautiously towards the door.

There was the rattle of heavy machine gun fire answered by howls of rage, then screams. Litefoot pointed the blue glass lens from where the earlier sound appeared to emit towards the door and tried the switch again. There was a click of the door unlocking. Litefoot cracked the door slightly to look outside. The corridor was vacant, he edged out but there was more machine gun fire, closer and heavier, more prolonged accompanied by further howls. Litefoot dove back into the study, pocketing the device as another rattle of weapons fire echoed through the building. Litefoot closed the door as shouts and cheers of victory erupt.

Litefoot tried the door only to find it once again locked. From outside he could hear the hissing of an approaching steam engine. A few moments later, Havelock wheeled back into the room. "McGeehan - went - insane - and - killed - fifteen - men." Havelock tapped the arm of his chair, and grimaced, "Dead - now. Waste - of - material - and - money." He shook his head in a jerky and limited motion, "Maybe - Ivanov - will - be - able - to - cannibalise - something - from - the - carcass." He looks to Litefoot. "Now - Doctor, Fräulein - Dixon - told - you - of - our - little - venture?"

Litefoot nodded, "Your project? Yes."

"Good - then - you - return - my - jewel, I - return - Mister - Jago - and - your - father." He swung his chair back around, as the German woman returned, clearly flushed from the exertions of combat "Fräulein - Dixon - will - escort - you - out." Havelock headed for the door and disappeared with a hiss of steam and pungent fug of chemicals and excretions.

_Reading Railway Station_

Dixon halted the car and one of the toughs opened the rear door, practically lifting Litefoot out of the vehicle. As the cold air slammed against Litefoot's semi-drugged state, Dixon looked to Litefoot, with concern in her eyes. "Well Doktor Litefűt, you can be back in London within an hour." She nodded her head and clicked her heels, "You have your orders _unt_ we will be in touch."

Litefoot stumbled towards the foyer of the station to queue for the purchase of a ticket when a woman looped her arm through his. "Come on darling, we have _already_ bought the tickets – our train is waiting." Litefoot looked around blearily, "Miss K… Khorsandi is it you?"

Her golden-skinned face cracked, as she guided the stupor-ridden doctor towards the London platform, "Now come on, it's Mrs Litefoot. I'm your wife."

12. The Undiscovered Country

_Train Carriage_

Litefoot winced as he sipped the scalding hot coffee. He looked up at his companion, "I am sorry."

Khorsandi smiled, "It is me who should apologise to you. It seemed," she shrugged, "The simplest way to make contact and get you away from Havelock's woman."

Litefoot yawned deeply and stretched despite the company, "Havelock has told me the… truth of the scarab and his intentions. In fact they had already released me."

Khorsandi scoffed, "That he is a great philanthropist looking to use the device and cure humanity?"

Litefoot rubbed his head and half-laughed, "That sounds as if humanity is some sort of disease." Khorsandi did not respond. "You doubt his words?"

Khorsandi reached into the satchel on the seat beside her, pulling out a thin folder and passed it to Litefoot. "Caroline Simpson, an agent of ours, was working with Julien Wragg as his associate in London," Litefoot opened the folder. Inside is a sheaf of papers affixed together; on the front page was a photograph of a tall woman – possibly over six feet in height – taken covertly.

"Is this…?"

Khorsandi looked directly at Litefoot, "Your Hampton Road victim? Yes. Simpson worked for us trying to track down who was funnelling artefacts out of Persia and how. We set her up as a contact in London to channel misappropriated works of art to." She sighed, "Then twelve months ago, nothing."

"But she had been killed. Surely you must have considered that possibility?"

Khorsandi blanched, "It was a possibility, but we could not associate anyone with such an act."

"So you left her body to wash away down the sewers?" Litefoot placed the folder on the table, "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I believe that you know someone who can help."

"The police know nothing of your Miss Simpson. Before Havelock had me kidnapped only her name was known to us. Unless she has a police record-"

"There is no police record."

Litefoot closed the folder exasperated, "Then how do you suppose Miss Jago or I can help?"

"It is not to Miss Jago I refer, but Miss Connelly."

"Miss Connelly? But it is Miss Jago who knows her better than I."

"You do yourself an injustice Doctor Litefoot." Khorsandi smiled, "Now, some the vapours of the chemicals used by Havelock to extend his life have been noted to have a soporific effect. That, in conjunction with the blows to your head," Litefoot felt as though he is drifting, disassociated from his body, "might make you rest." Litefoot slipped into sleep and she smiled. "Of course, the morphia in the coffee helps."

_Connelly residence, Camberwell_

Henri stood in Eleanor's study, looking out of the window, "They are here!" A steam car pulled up in the street outside and Khorsandi stepped down followed by Litefoot. He still appeared under the influence of the drugs as he stumbled. The cab driver called something to the pair and Khorsandi answers in rapid Farsi.

Henri raced and opened the front door. "Edison! Is he alright?" She helped the poor doctor over the threshold, "What's wrong with him?"

Khorsandi removed her gloves and hat, "Nothing permanent Miss Jago. Merely the effects of inhaling ether, formaldehyde, blood plasma fumes and machine oil – and a dose of morphia to help him sleep off the blows to the head."

"You drugged him!" Henri shouted rather than questioning as Eleanor came running into the corridor.

"Only the tiniest amount of morphia," she held her thumb and finger close together to indicate the strength of the dose. "He would have had far worse injected by Havelock." She removed her outer coat. "Now Miss Connelly, are we ready?" Eleanor nodded dumbly, "Good." Khorsandi pulled a small green glass bottle from her handbag and wafted it under Litefoot's nose. He choked and came around. "Now then Doctor, do you know where you are?"

Litefoot looked about with bleary eyes, "It looks like… Miss Connelly's residence… Was I not just on a train?"

Khorsandi cleared her throat, "Yes Doc-"

Henri pushed her aside and knelt down beside her friend, placing an arm around his shoulders, "How are you? What happened?"

Litefoot turned his head slightly almost drunkenly and looked straight into Henri's eyes. "Havelock has our fathers. He wants the jewel for them."

"We must give it him then."

Khorsandi threw the glass bottle to the floor, shattering it in her rage, "Out of the question!"

"He has our fathers!"

"I am truly sorry Miss Jago, but if you believe a man – and he is more machine now than man – who is capable of doing what he has done will simply relinquish your father just because you give him something," Khorsandi shook her head, "Then I am afraid you will be sorely mistaken. That is if he does not kill you out of hand."

Henri raised a hand to her mouth in shock. "So… what do you suggest?"

Khorsandi reached into her bag. "Give him this. It may buy us some time." She pulled out a ball of jade crystal about the size of a cricket ball, identical in every respect to the one Henri first saw only a few days ago. She tossed it to Henri who caught it single-handed.

Eleanor was impressed, "With women like you on the team, the cricketers might win once in a while!"

"But this is lighter," Henri studied it, "And it does not have the silver work inside."

Khorsandi shook her head, "The circuitry? No. It is not a perfect replica, but it might be sufficient to fool Havelock. It is doubtful he has ever seen the real Scarab. If he had, then none of this would have happened for he would already have it in his possession."

Henri passed the ball to Eleanor to study, "But why bring Henri and Doctor Litefoot here, Miss Khorsandi? How can I possibly help?"

"Because, in addition to being a fine artist, you are a spiritualist and medium are you not Miss Connelly?" Eleanor nodded, "And it was in that later capacity you found a place with Lord de Salem's expedition?" Eleanor was shocked since that was not public knowledge, but nodded meekly, "Well then, you are ideally suited to helping me – helping us – track down the ritual needed to activate the altar."

Eleanor was confused. Her psychic talents are little more than a dowsing technique – fine for at an actual site or over a map but next to useless without some physical link, "How?"

"You read in the paper of the woman found dead on Hampton Road?" The trio nodded, "Well she was – as I explained to Doctor Litefoot – an agent for the same department as I. We had procured for her the tablets onto which the rituals had been transcribed, to sell to Havelock in an attempt to unmask the real thieves in Persia. But she was murdered before she handed them over. We have been unable to find them and whilst my superiors believe they were taken when she was murdered, I believe that…"

"If we hold a séance, you can find them?"

"Yes. _If_ Havelock had the tablets of ritual, he would not have _waited_ until now to pursue the Scarab. Perhaps he believed when we approached him that it was a bluff, that we did not have the tablets. With the Scarab and altar together… well he has sufficient information to perform the ritual, just not in the correct order."

"And that would be a problem how? If he tries and fails, would anything change?"

"One theory is that the altar could explode destroying an area the size of greater London, the radiations released would terminate all life on Earth and tear everything apart molecule-by-molecule."

"That does not sound very good."

Khorsandi smiled, "Well then, I will not tell you the _worse_ theory." Henri, Eleanor and Litefoot visibly paled. The Persian realised that her attempt at humour was ill-judged. "Seriously the end of life as we know it _is _the worse possible result. It is most likely just to explode."

"Somehow even that is not reassuring." Henri blinked, trying to shake the image of such wide-scale destruction visited on the capital of the Empire. "How can we stop it?"

"Well Miss Jago that all depends on whether or not Havelock gets the rituals and the Scarab."

"So we yield to him than?"

"I yield to no man."

Khorsandi dipped her head in a bow and rubbed her hands together, "There you have it Miss Connelly. Let us away to prepare for séance."

Eleanor led Khorsandi into the back room as Henri and Andersson helped Litefoot. The room was dark and smelt strongly of incense, the deep red curtains and limited gas lighting further lending to the sombre and almost oppressive atmosphere. What little furniture is present comprises a dark mahogany table covered by a deep brown cloth and half-a-dozen chairs of the same wood and carved style as the table. After ensuring Litefoot was seated, Andersson busied himself bringing some object out of an almost hidden, recessed cupboard. The object, sheltered in a stark white cloth tied by a length of black velvet is evidently of some weight and Andersson hefts it to a position in front of the seat opposite Litefoot.

"Miss Connelly?" Andersson removed two of the seats and repositions the others to provide a four-person seating arrangement.

"Yes Benjamin?"

"May I remind you;" he consulted a pocket chronometer, "the Sheridan party is due in one hour?"

Eleanor nodded, "Yes thank you. This is," she looked to Khorsandi, "a special sitting."

Henri sat to Litefoot's left; she looked at her friend and took his hands in hers. He looked at her kindly but still with the fug of a drug-induced stupor. "Miss Connelly, Eleanor. What is it you want us to do?"

Eleanor sat down to Henri's left, opposite Litefoot. "If Miss Khorsandi will sit, I will explain." The Persian sat to Eleanor's left, opposite Henri and to Litefoot's right. "In a traditional séance, we would sit, hold hands," despite his stupor, Litefoot flushed at the thought of holding hands with women, "and concentrate on a common focus – in this case Connie Simpson – on the ethereal plane." Eleanor untied the black velvet band and removed from under the cloth a braided flex that she unravelled. She handed the loose end of the flex to Andersson. He plugged this into the gramophone he had just wheeled out of the cupboard. Eleanor launched into the standard lecture automatically, "Now the ethereal realm has no direct physical analogue and is impossible to describe to someone without a common frame of reference. For the sake of simplicity, the realm is filled with a sort of mental fog that ebbs and flows depending on the number of minds contributing to it and the strength and emotional state of those minds. A calm and collected mind will thicken the fog around them, keeping their thoughts private. A drunkard might cause the fog to thin around him or her but create static from unclear thoughts instead. Lunatics cause the fog to shift unpredictably and those trained in anti-scanning techniques turn the fog into a wall. The strength behind the emotions being felt will sometimes thin the fog for that mind's thoughts, which is a tool that can be utilised to great effect. Strong emotional energies influence the realm and none are stronger than those released at the time of death. The ethereal realm becomes extremely thin whenever someone's mind is fading from life. So thin, in fact, that telepaths can often _see _the imagery going through the mind of the dying. Some see a vortex of light, others a dark path or even music and welcoming friends to guide them. No matter what the images seen by the dying mind, a medium must be careful not to focus too much on the realm at that time. The emotional strength of such an event could draw the medium's mind into the realm forever. A sudden death rarely triggers such things but any type of lasting pain or suffering can."

Andersson cleared his throat. Eleanor looked around sharply at her assistant; he nodded towards the three around the table looking perplexed and uncomprehendingly at Eleanor. "Oh. I do apologise. The mechanics are of little importance." She removed the white cloth to reveal an almost standard-looking upright telephone with one or two modifications fitted together into some form of apparatus. "This is an etheric spiriphone devised by Doctor Albert Spengler of Berlin. This device enables us to hear and speak to the spirits of the dead." As she spoke, Eleanor highlighted the various elements, "It consists of parts of the mouthpiece from a normal speaking telephone connected via an amplifying induction coil to this psionic crystal tube," she pointed to a dull, opaque blue crystal cut into a hexagonal cylinder that Henri and Litefoot recognised as being of the same form Eleanor used on Litefoot barely two days ago. "This crystal tube is filled with an otherwise inert low-pressure gas which is ionised by a high-voltage electric current. Spirits who speak in the vicinity of the tube have their voices picked up and reproduced by the telephone receiver. I have modified this spiriphone to fit to my gramophone over there to allow an entire gathering to hear the spirit's communication rather than a select few proximate enough to the earpiece of the 'phone." Eleanor leant back from the table. "Of course, spirits are quite capable of hearing the living normally, but by speaking into the receiver, the operator produces etheric fluctuations within the tube which the spirits can hear much more clearly – apparently and it is simple courtesy to open a duologue using such a device rather than effectively screaming an invitation. Now," she looked to the three around the table, "most spirits seem eager to communicate with the living, so I foresee little problem in contacting Miss Simpson." Eleanor picked up the spiriphone mouthpiece and toggled a switch on the front of the device. An electrical dynamo started and a few seconds later, the blue crystal tube glowed whiter and brighter. Eleanor closed her eyes and murmured something inaudible to human ears into the mouthpiece. There was silence apart from the scratching of the dynamo.

"I hear the summons." A soft ethereal voice filled the room from the horn of the gramophone and Henri found her mind drawn to picturing a tall woman dressed in stylish but slightly dated clothing.

"Miss Caroline Simpson?"

"Yes though everyone calls me 'Connie' or 'Carrie'."

"Do you know where you are?"

"Yes. I'm dead. I'm a ghost. There is so much here – time has no meaning, no past no present but nothing of time yet to come."

"How can there be? By very definition, 'time yet to come' has not yet come to pass."

"Please Miss Jago, all in good time." Eleanor turned her attention once more to the spiriphone. "Miss Simpson, Connie, can you tell us what happened to you?"

"I was killed by Norton_._" A flash of a man's face passed in their minds.

"Norton?"

"A sailor in the atmotic navy I had been stepping out with. I thought he loved me," the spirit voice sounded wistful and the gathering was almost overcome by a warm euphoric feeling, "but he killed me," the euphoria dissipated to be replaced by a colder, harsher feeling of anger, "because _someone_ paid him to. Since I died I have learned so much: Lord de Salem was working for the Persian government to reclaim the Altar of Mortimus. The price of this employment: the chance to use the Altar once more, properly with the full control circuitry and power rituals in place. In the antiquities market it has long been known that Julien Wragg could extricate almost anything from a museum for a price. Although nothing conclusive could ever be proven tying him to any theft, Wragg maintained the aspect of an honest – if slightly shady – supplier of costume jewellery. I was his associate in London for many years and I never knew of his darker side until Miss Khorsandi approached me and recruited me into her service." There was a vague sigh, "Havelock knew of Wragg's activities and wanted him to get the scarab. He approached me through his agent Gnade Hana Dixon to convince me to supply the scarab to him. This was before Wragg had even obtained it. Thirteen months ago I met Able Seaman Albert Dixon and we stepped out. Barely a month later, he killed me in the shower," unbidden Litefoot saw a mental image of Simpson in the shower, water cascading over her naked, wet body, following every curve, trailing over her supple pale white flesh… He felt his face burning. "When Havelock thought I had betrayed him, he sent Norton to _kill_ me. And he did. The bastard actually shot me five times!"

"We are very sorry to hear that Connie, but I am confused." Henri pulled out a small notebook and she started to compile the revelations into notes so as to try to make sense of everything.

"Very well Miss Jago I shall say it again. Lord de Salem and I have – or rather had, links with Miss Khorsandi's department of the Persian Ministry for Antiquities trying to stop the selling of the Altar of Mortimus also known as the Altar of Necromanta to Sir Charles Havelock. As part of my cover, I was the London associate for a man named Wragg who, despite a business as supplier of cheap costume jewellery – that necklace really suits you by the way," Henri's hand moved to the necklace she was wearing, "had a sideline in smuggling stolen goods from various museums in the Middle East, with me so far?" From her tone, Simpson was rather agitated. "Good. Fourteen months ago, Lord de Salem announced he had found the relics of an ancient king associated with some equally ancient cult who believed they could defeat death. Havelock who was fast dying, Doctor Litefoot, you have met him, you know of what I speak," Litefoot nodded, "had heard of a Scarab of Necromanta in the Persepolis museum and Havelock had one of his underlings come to arrange the acquisition. Wragg said it would take months to plan and execute the theft, but Havelock thought we were betraying him. He paid Norton a 'princely' sum to court me, and later murder me. In the meantime, de Salem's expedition actually uncovered the Altar, the remains of Mortimus himself and whereabouts of the second Scarab."

"What second scarab?"

"The control device Anousheh, the jade ball sent to Jago is merely the power crystal."

"I thought the control rituals were inscribed on stone tablets."

"No they are held in an amber ball; the amber scarab, much in the way computator programmes are inscribed on those metal discs. Before Wragg was killed he arranged for the jade ball – the power cell – to be sent to Mister Wooster with instruction on where to deliver it, and the amber ball was sent on the _Lady Charlotte_."

"So Havelock needs both balls to use the Altar?"

"Yes. If he just had the amber ball, enough residual radiations are present in the apparatus to produce a temporary effect, but he needs both for a permanent result."

Henri tapped her pencil on the table, "Am I to assume that you know the whereabouts of the amber scarab?"

"Yes. It is at _Chapman & Villiers,_ recovered from the cargo hold of the _Lady Charlotte _waiting cataloguing and shipment to the addressee – your father, Miss Jago."

Henri dropped her pencil, "My father?"

"Yes."

"Is he… can you… is he on the ethereal plane?"

There was a pause before the response. "No. I know not where he is but neither he nor Professor Litefoot are here or beyond." Henri slumped in relief, but still concerned that her father has to be _somewhere_. "Havelock discovered about the jade ball and sent his creature McGeehan to retrieve it from Wooster little realising it had already arrived at the Palace Theatre. Yet the device had remained at Wooster's long enough to impart some of its regenerative radiations on the environment. These started to work on McGeehan, trying to reject the machinery grafted onto his body and driving what was left of the man insane."

"How do you know all this?"

"Because in Life I was inexorably linked to these events, death is a wonderful method of opening the mind and it is relatively simple to traverse the chronologies of the ethereal and study past events." The voice began to drift – as though the speaker was getting more distant.

Eleanor tapped the spiriphone, cranking the handle. "I am afraid the 'phone is losing power. I am unsure as to how much longer the connection can be-" The spiriphone crystal dimmed and the gramophone emitted a loud cough as the power supply to the psionic crystal failed. Eleanor tapped the crystal with a fingernail and was answered by a sharp ringing sound, "The crystal is undamaged!" She withdrew a small rectangular unit from beneath the crystal assembly with a sigh of relief, "The battery simply needs recharging." Eleanor looked to the chronometer on the wall, "Heavens! The Sheridan party will be here presently."

"This 'second scarab' is troubling. Maybe the _faux_ jade one will be sufficient to continue the deception."

"If it results in our fathers being returned then, so do we."

Khorsandi breathed out slowly, "I meant no offence. I hope your fathers are returned safe and unharmed Miss Jago. I will bid you good day. I have one more errand to run now." With that she left.

Henri turned to Litefoot, who now looked to be slightly more alert. "Doctor Litefoot, do you think you are ready to leave? I think we had better go and get the jade scarab from the Palace."

Litefoot nodded carefully, "That sounds a very reasonable idea Miss Jago."

Henri helped the doctor to his feet, and after bidding Eleanor good day the pair left to hail a cab. As fortune had it, Eleanor's next appointment arrived at that moment, and the investigators took the opportunity to use the now-unwanted horse-drawn cab.

A fog was beginning to descend once more, the setting sun making everything seem aglow with orange flame. The horses seemed reluctant to proceed more than once and the driver had to use the whip more than once to get them to move. Even through the thickening fog, Henri felt as though the city was becoming deserted. There was something odd in the still air, a smell of decay and chemicals. Then there was a howl of an inhuman beast.

The horses whinnied and neighed in panic, the driver did his best to calm them.

There was another howl, closer than before. Henri looked at Litefoot; he looked very worried which did nothing to reassure her.

A further howl sounded much, much closer. The horses started to bolt. Henri screamed.

There was a loud thump as someone – something – landed on the roof of the cab, the driver gave a short, strangled cry and there was the sound of something wet hitting the roof.

Yet another howl was answered by the screams of the horses cut short into gurgling whinnies and silence. Outside there was nothing to be seen but fog. The cab slewed to a halt, threatening to overturn. Henri screamed.

After a few terrifying seconds of silence, there was the sound of something bestial very close-by breathing. Something hard and metallic hit the cab body. And something – it could hardly be called a face, though it undoubtedly once was – leered in through the window. For a brief moment Litefoot was reminded of McGeehan, the same puckered and necrotising flesh melded with metal and machinery. Litefoot leapt between Henri and it, striking out with his cane.

The beast bit the cane in two, spitting out splintered wood and emitting a guttural growl. With the razor-sharp metal talons built onto its left hand, the creature tore into the cab, clawing for Henri with its flesh-and-blood right hand, ripping her garments and covering her with foul pink-stained fluids mixed with oil. Litefoot lashed out again inflicting damage to the head of the creature.

With the new threat, the creature turned its attentions to the doctor and flung him bodily from the wreckage of the cab. It set about biting and snapping at Litefoot, shredding clothes and flesh as Henri screamed, and a second creature leapt from the fog directly at Henri. The first, now that Litefoot was down and out for the count, turned back to the cab and approached growling.

Suddenly out of the fog came a steam-car. Madsen leaned out holding a revolver. He fired a single shot at the chest of one of the beasts. The round hit something metallic and ricocheted. The creature howled more in rage than pain and turned to the new target. Madsen fired several more shots from his pistol at both creatures driving them off.

Henri ran from the ruins of the cab and threw herself down beside the once-again torn form of her friend. "Mister Madsen," she looked up, "We must get him help."

Madsen took a breath as he clambered out of his car wearing pneumatic metal leg-braces, "Get him in the back of my car, I know who to take him to." Henri and Madsen manoeuvred the battered and unconscious doctor into his car. "He's lost a lot of blood, but…" Madsen offered a reassuring smile, "I am certain he will be fine."

"What of the cab driver?" Henri turned to look at the wreck of their cab.

"There is nothing that can be done for him." Madsen shielded her from the view of the eviscerated and decapitated cab driver.

Henri set about using strips of fabric from her shredded clothes and those of the doctor to staunch the flow of blood. Then she sat in silence looking at Litefoot before broaching the subject, "What _was_ that?"

Madsen sniffed as he flicked the ash from a cigarette out of the car window, "A Reiver."

"Who…"

"Who were the reivers? '_If Jesus Christ were amongst them, they would deceive him, if he would hear, trust and follow their wicked councils_'. They come from the Marches, Border country, up where England meets Scotland, just rain and wind and little else. The border reivers had their way with that land for centuries. They were guerrilla fighters and they lived by the feud, and they raided and robbed and killed as they pleased. The law could not stop them. Not till the war and the border became a fortress." Madsen suddenly realised how pale Henri had gone. "I did not mean to frighten you Miss Jago. That creature was merely some subscriber to that tale; a mercenary who had his body modified to suit the image. Likely as not by Sir Charles Havelock, he seems to be highly interested in this augmentation of the human form." Henri still looked sick.

"How… how did you know where to find us?"

"Quite simple Miss Jago," Madsen coughed and spat something out of the window. "I have been following you since you left Connelly's. I wished to confer with Edison, Doctor Litefoot, but your carriage left before I had chance to approach you." He slowed the vehicle and pointed out of the front window, "Here we are Miss Jago. If anyone can help the good Doctor, it's the Fixer here."

Henri looked out to an unimposing, small detached house. "I do hope so."

"We will leave Doctor Litefoot here; I will take you home and bring you back in the morning."

13. Compensation for Damages

_Limehouse_

After Madsen had deposited her at home, Henri had found herself alone, her mother still in Peckham. Henri had stripped off filthy and shredded clothes, poured herself a scalding hot bath and had sat weeping on the bathroom floor, her knees drawn up to her chin, tears streaking down her cheeks. She sat like this for at least an hour – long enough for the bath to cool, cycling through the full gamut of emotions, from fear at the attacks to disgust at her fear, to relief, to anxiety and then back again. She had been very terrified by the detestable creature as it attacked the cab, trying to pull her out of the door it had splintered. She was disgusted that she had done so little to aid in the battle to keep them at bay. She cursed herself for being so weak. She was – she had thought – a strong woman, a fighter, but she had seen no way out of that dreadful scenario, and had practically given herself over to her fast-approaching fate when Doctor Litefoot had erupted and taken on the foul creature single-handed. Then Madsen had appeared out of the fog and taken on the monster and saved them both. She felt ashamed that her first thought had been to flee, to get away from there as quickly as possible whilst she had the chance.

The more prevalent horror, however, had been seeing Litefoot in such a desperate condition after he had been so abused by the creature whilst protecting her. Even now, she feared for his life, feared what this 'fixer' character may do to him, and worse, feared that Madsen's words of reassurance were simply that – words – and that before long he would succumb to his terrible injuries and, regardless of how tightly she had tied the bandages and how well she had managed to preserve the flow of his lifeblood, she would have lost him forever as well. Even though it had only been a few days since they met, she could not bear the thought that Edison might die. The tears began to well again. Henri felt her body wracked with the release of emotion.

_Whitechapel_

Litefoot woke with a start.

He sucked at the air.

His head was throbbing, although he felt as if he had somehow been infused with a warm, liquid glow; warmth that started in his belly and seemed to seep upwards towards his head, gloriously taking the edge off his pain and leaving his mind to wander in a drowsy state of semi-consciousness. He knew the sensation of old, the morphia-induced haze on the flight from Newcastle that ended his service with the Royal Army Medical Corps.

Litefoot peeled open his eyes, and then immediately shut them again. The light in the room was blinding, clinically sharp, and it seared the back of his retina like a hot knife. He drew a ragged breath, pulling the air down into his lungs. His chest felt like it was on fire. Cautiously, he tried to open his eyes again, reaching up to shelter them from the glare with cupped hands. Stinging tears ran down his cheeks. He blinked them away. Finally, an image resolved.

He was lying on his back on a hard, metal table. A face was looming over him. He tried to sit up.

"No, Doctor. Try to remain still. Everything is going to be alright."

Litefoot felt a hand on his chest, holding him still on the table. He blinked up at the strange face that was hovering over him. The man was in his late forties, balding, with a neatly trimmed black beard. A bizarre mechanical contraption sat on his head, like a wire frame that encompassed his temples and forehead, with various accoutrements and glass lenses attached to it on folding levers and arms. The man reached up and flipped one of these lenses down over one eye.

"Who are you? Where am I?" Litefoot had a panicked edge to his voice.

"I am known as Fixer, and you are in my workshop, underneath my home. You have nothing to worry about."

Litefoot breathed a sigh of relief, allowing some relaxation and he felt himself starting to give into the morphia haze again. Litefoot quickly discovered that his abdomen and shoulder lanced with pain every time he made even the slightest motion with his body. He tried to lie still, giving himself over to the morphine, but this "Fixer" had been wise and had only dosed him with enough to take the edge off the pain, and not enough to render him unconscious again. He felt gloved hands tearing at his clothes and the faint stirring of a breeze on his exposed flesh. Nevertheless, the room itself was warm, and listening to the sounds around him he had the sense of a workshop full of bizarre, mechanical devices. There was a faint electrical hum, accompanied by the occasional sound of a belching valve as it issued forth a cloud of hot steam, as well as the constant tick-tock of numerous clockwork engines, powering objects that he could not see from his limited vantage point on the table. Litefoot tried not to imagine about what the man may be about to do to him with the strange machines that were making such sounds.

The Fixer appeared in his field of vision once again, wavering slightly under the influence of the opium, and then disappeared. Litefoot could hear him shuffling around the other side of the table. The Fixer cleared his throat, and then began to speak, offering a running commentary as he examined Litefoot's wounds. His voice, Litefoot noticed, was gruff and gravelly; the voice of a man who had smoked too much heavy tobacco in his time. "Hmmm, a vicious bite in the left clavicular area, serious tears to the flesh and muscular tissue _and_ excessive blood loss," he paused for a moment, poking sharply at the wounds on Litefoot's chest. "Deep gouges in the chest, numerous flesh wounds and a severe laceration in the left side of the chest and abdomen. My, my, you have been busy."

Litefoot stirred uncomfortably. He waited until he heard the other man move away from the table, his footsteps ringing on the tiled floor, and then, with a significant effort, managed to prop himself up on one elbow. The Fixer stood at the foot of the table, fiddling with an array of surgical tools, which pinged noisily on a steel tray. Beside him on a wooden trolley was a rack of steel hypodermic syringes, which contained a range of strange, multi-coloured fluids. Litefoot took the opportunity to take a better look at the man who called himself the Fixer. Aside from the contraption on his head, the man was wearing a tarnished leather smock and matching leather gloves, and Litefoot could not help thinking that he had more of the appearance of a butcher about him, than that of a physician. He had a ruddy complexion and the manner of a public schoolboy about him. Litefoot suspected he spent a great deal of time in his workshop, and very little time engaging with the world.

Unsure what was likely to happen next, and not willing to ask, Litefoot cast his eyes around the room, trying to get a measure of his surroundings.

The basement was lit by a series of long, unusual strip lights that arced across the ceiling from one wall to the other, curved glass tubes that terminated with gas valves where they met the walls at each end. An array of bizarre machines and surgical tables filled the space in between. One of these – a large, brass contraption about the size of a small table, with two glass vats full of bubbling fluid sat atop it – had long coils of tubing that snaked out from the belly of the machine and away into the dark corners of the room. Another smaller contraption was fitted with a wheezing bellow, of the sort Litefoot had seen attached to the life-preserving engine of Havelock. It even rose and fell with the same constant rhythm of that breathing machine, although in this instance it appeared that the bellow was actually helping to power an unusual electrical device, the lights on it flickering from orange to blue as the exposed filaments danced with the current.

The alarming contraption above Litefoot's own table was connected to an extensive brass framework, a kind of large gun on a moveable rail, with fat tubing trailing from the back of it and disappearing into a nearby hatch in the floor. The device had a trigger fitted to the undercarriage and the end of it terminated in a spread of fine needles, bunched together to form a neat point. Litefoot shivered.

The Fixer turned to notice him looking. "Impressive, isn't it?" He turned to encapsulate the room with a gesture of his arms, indicating the various machines. "This is what Doctor Ivanov gets up to when left to his own devices, Works of genius, every one of them." The Fixer tapped the bottle of pink fluid. "This is '_Lilith_' it has certain restorative abilities." He paused, "You have no idea what I am talking of do you?" Litefoot could barely mutter in the negative. "Well it is of little import at the moment. All you need to know," he places a hand on Litefoot's shoulder, "Is that she will be of great assistance in the healing process."

Groggily, Litefoot met his gaze, and felt immediately disorientated by the sight of the man's strange eyewear, which magnified the appearance of his right eye so that it seemed at least three times the size of his left. "So, what do you intend to do for me, surgery?"

The Fixer smiled. "Of a sort, I need to knit your shoulder and chest back together with my stitching machine." He indicated the gun-like device on the rail overhead. "Then I can give you a blood transfusion and a dose of one of Doctor Ivanov's excellent compounds."

Litefoot narrowed his eyes. "What will it do?"

"Fix you, of course." The man beamed. Litefoot held his gaze, a serious expression on his face. Sighing, the Fixer continued. "The _Lilith_ is derived from a compound extracted from a sea slug that Ivanov discovered out in the South Pacific a couple of years ago. When transfused into the human body, it boosts the existing immune system, helping the blood cells to clot and bind, and knitting muscles and bones back together very swiftly indeed. I wish it were easier to synthesise; could have save a lot of trouble." He paused, tapping his foot on the tiles as if planning his next move. "Come on. Let's get you under the knife. You'll know the effects of the treatment soon enough, anyway."

Cautiously, Litefoot laid his head back against the hard surface of the table. The Fixer moved round to stand beside him, reaching over to wash his shoulder wound with a wet cloth. The antiseptic fluid burned angrily where it came into contact with the damaged, puckered flesh. Litefoot winced and clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth, as the other man reached up and took hold of the stitching machine. Litefoot closed his eyes. He heard the device firing up, the rat-a-tat-tat of the needles scraping back and forth as the Fixer applied pressure to the trigger, testing the pneumatic power. He brought the gun closer to Litefoot's shoulder, and then, without any further warning, he jabbed the device into the soft tissue underneath the skin of Litefoot's left arm. The needles began to puncture the lacerated flesh in a torrent of relentless pinpricks. Litefoot screamed out in agony as the device stitched a series of fine filaments deep into his clavicular muscles; slowly, deliberately, knitting his shoulder back together. The Fixer began to move the device along the extent of the wound, closing the flesh where the creature's mouth had torn it open. Blackness swam around the edges of Litefoot's vision.

He fainted, and everything went dark.

When Litefoot came round again he was lying on a bed, his head resting on the soft, downy pillows, a thick woollen blanket pulled up over his waist. Thin rubber tubes jutted rudely from incisions made in each of his wrists, trailing off toward large machines on either side of him; one of which was giving off a deep, mechanical rumble and a gentle gasp of warm air. He tried to sit up, but felt his shoulder pulling tightly where the Fixer and his stitching machine had done their work. He flexed his fingers and tentatively moved his arm, feeling that he had regained a lot of strength in the limb. The pain in his shoulder and abdomen had mostly subsided to a dull ache. He lifted the corner of the blanket warily and looked down at the line of puckered flesh where the machine had sewn him back together again. It was bruised and purple, and had an ungainly web-work of black stitches weaving across it, but it was far better than an open wound, and in truth he felt almost normal once again. There was still the stiffness in his right leg though.

"Marvellous, isn't it?" Litefoot looked up, noting for the first time that the Fixer was sitting in a chair by the side of the bed, watching him intently as he explored his handiwork. His strange headpiece was on the table beside him, and he looked considerably more normal without his leather smock and gloves. "It should not leave much of a scar there, either, what with the water-tight stitches and the transfusion of Doctor Ivanov's healing compound that you're receiving at the moment." The Fixer smiled. "It'll be sore for a few weeks, though."

Litefoot sat up and folded the blanket back over his lap. "How long before I am up and about?"

"A couple of hours, there's no reason to keep you here, once the transfusions are complete and we have found you some suitable clothes. You should go home and rest, let the compound do its work." He waved at Litefoot's abdomen underneath the fawn-coloured blanket. "Mind you, it should hold up, even if you do find yourself in another scrape. Those stitches are not designed to give out on you. You'll need to come back in a couple of weeks to have them out again, whatever the case."

Litefoot grimaced at the thought of it. He lifted his arms, presenting his wrists to the other man. "Which one's which?"

"The machine on your left is giving you blood. The one on your right is giving you the _Lilith_ solution."

Litefoot glanced at the machine to the left of him. It seemed to be vibrating gently, humming as it pumped the fluid along the coiling black tube and up into his arm. A panel near to where the Fixer was sitting was decorated in a series of dials, all of which had been turned to various positions that made no sense to Litefoot, at least from where he was sitting. He met the other man's eye, indicating the transfusion machine, "Why is it so noisy?"

"Ah. That's the refrigeration unit. I use that to keep the blood from congealing. It doesn't last long out of the body. Luckily for you, Rothford is a willing donor, and his blood type is such that it's compatible with most people." Litefoot must have looked blank, "Rothford, my manservant." Litefoot nodded. "You'll meet him shortly. Now, though, you need to lay back and rest. I'll come and disconnect you shortly, once we're both happy that you're ready to take a walk." The Fixer stood at the foot of the bed, smiling, and then disappeared into the gloom. Litefoot allowed his head to fall back onto the pillow. The effects of the morphia had worn off and his body started to ache and burn again. Sighing, he closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, listening to the sounds of the gurgling fluid that was currently seeping into his bloodstream.

Two hours later, dressed only in a plain white robe and with thick, yellow poultices applied to his wounds, Litefoot followed the Fixer up a small internal staircase and into a waiting area that was set out like a gentleman's reception room. Rothford, the Fixer's manservant, was waiting for them there, his hands folded neatly behind his back. He stood when the two gentlemen came into the room, his hands folded neatly behind his back.

The Fixer spoke first. "Rothford, this is Doctor Edison Litefoot. He'll need your attention, in the very near future, as well as some assistance finding suitable attire. Please treat him as a guest in this house."

Rothford gave a single nod of the head, and then glanced at Litefoot, "Very good sir."

The Fixer clapped a hand on Litefoot's arm, carefully avoiding the wound on his shoulder. "I'll leave you in Rothford's capable hands. Be sure to take some time to rest." He turned to leave, and Litefoot reached out to stop him. He offered the Fixer a sincere smile.

"Thank you, I..."

The other man shook his head. "Don't thank me. Simply try to ensure that you don't need my attentions again in the near future, especially before you're back to have those stitches out."

Litefoot tried to laugh, causing his chest to burn with pain. "I'm not planning on it. I'll give you that much."

The Fixer smiled. "For men in our profession, Doctor, that has to be enough. Good day to you."

"Likewise," Litefoot watched as the man disappeared from the room, descending the stairs towards his workshop once again.

Rothford approached from the other side of the room. "If you would like to come with me, Doctor, I will show you to our dressing room."

Litefoot nodded and followed behind Rothford as he led him through a door, along a short passageway and through another door into a small room on the left. It was furnished with a wardrobe, cheval-glass mirror and dressing table. Rothford crossed to the wardrobe and opened the doors with a flourish. Inside, Litefoot could see that it was filled with all manner of formal suits and dresses, white shirts and underclothes. He wondered how many 'visitors' the Fixer regularly received.

Rothford searched through the rack of clothes for a moment, before withdrawing a black suit on a hanger and holding it up beside Litefoot. "There. I should imagine this will suit. I shall lay it on the chair over here." He draped it over the back of the tall chair by the dressing table. "Please feel free to help yourself to a shirt and underclothes. When you are decent you will find me in the reception room at the other end of this short hallway. I shall away and organise some breakfast, bacon and eggs?"

"Thank you." Litefoot nodded, unsure what else to say. He watched as Rothford exited the room, clicking the door shut behind him. Then, gingerly, he disrobed, eyeing his wounds in the cheval-glass. The line of bruised, puckered flesh that ran down the left side of him looked angry and sore. Yet, strangely, he felt decidedly more alert than he had in days. He supposed that had a lot to do with Doctor Ivanov's miraculous healing compound. He made a mental note to attempt to find out the nature of its derivation. It would make an interesting study, and he could do worse than to have a small amount of the compound available to him at his Chelsea lodgings.

Taking care to dress slowly, so as to avoid pulling on his stitching, Litefoot was soon feeling more _compus mentis_, more like his usual self, and with the promise of eggs and bacon just along the hall, he realised he was absolutely famished. Finding a pile of his personal belongings – amongst which was the strange black wand he had purloined from Havelock – arranged on the dressing table, he slipped these into the pockets of the borrowed suit and set off in search of Rothford, Earl Grey, and food – just not quite in that order.

14. Industrial Action

The next morning, back at his own residence, Litefoot rose early. Still tender from the ministrations of the Fixer the previous day, he went directly to the bathroom and washed his wounds, and then applied a thick layer of the yellow poultice to each of them in turn. The substance smelled faintly of beeswax, although he could only guess at what else it was comprised of; it was like nothing he had encountered before. He felt vibrant and nervous with energy, partially the result of too much rest, and partially, he imagined, the continued effect of Doctor Ivanov's compound. His wounds had begun to heal already, too, although there was still a long way to go before he would be back to anything like his normal physical form.

After a breakfast of toast and tea, Litefoot busied himself in the file room of his father's surgery, wasting time until Miss Jago would arrive – he had just had a telephone call from her to say she was one her way over. He looked up at the sound of the main door clicking open. He glanced at the grandfather clock through the open door of the consulting room. It was still too early for Miss Jago. Perhaps, Sister Elisabeth had decided to come to the surgery early that morning?

He stood, moving around the file cabinets into the waiting room to greet the new arrival. He stopped short when he heard an odd clacking sound, like brass feet clanging against the porcelain titles of the floor.

_Automaton_!

He backed up, wondering how one of the clockwork men had managed to get here. The feet continued to clatter on the tiles, slowly, deliberately, and Litefoot realised that there was more than one of the devices, judging by the sounds of their shuffling movements.

A moment later the brass skeleton of one of the units appeared around the corner behind the coat stand. Litefoot stiffened. It seemed to survey the office, its spinning eyes flicking from one corner of the room to the other. When it caught sight of Litefoot it began to move again, turning around slowly and approaching him, its arms hanging limp by its side. Another one shuffled into the room behind it.

Litefoot braced himself. "What are you doing here? What do you want?"

The automaton cocked its head slightly, as if trying to compute his words. Then, stopping – about six feet away from him, it raised its right hand before its face. There was a soft, almost pneumatic _snicking_ sound, as thin, knife-like blades slipped out from the ends of its fingers, turning its hand into a vicious, razor-sharp claw. Litefoot edged backwards until his legs encountered the edge of the reception desk. The automaton resumed its slow, relentless march towards him. Behind it, the other unit edged further into the room, blades clicking out of the ends of its fingertips to form an identical, gruesome-looking weapon.

Knowing that he was already seriously injured and therefore unlikely to be able to hold the automatons off for long, Litefoot decided to go on the offensive. He waited a moment until the nearest unit was only a matter of feet away from him and then charged it, trying to use his speed and body weight as his advantage. The automaton saw him coming, however, and twisted out of the way, clicking its torso through ninety degrees in a manner in which a human being would find impossible to emulate. Litefoot, unable to stop his momentum, slammed into the side of his desk, jarring his injured shoulder and spinning awkwardly to the ground. The desk overturned, sending sheaves of paper blooming into the air. Just in time, Litefoot realised he had landed at the feet of the second automaton and rolled to the left, narrowly avoiding its falling hand, which chopped down against the tiles with terrifying force, splintering the porcelain in a cloud of dust. Litefoot, still on the floor, grabbed out for the automaton's leg, yanking it forward and unbalancing the device, sending it smashing down to the hard floor beside him. It immediately began to clamber to its feet, dislocating its shoulder joints to give it better leverage. Litefoot climbed to one knee and thrashed out, bringing the coat stand crashing down in front of him, just in time to block the path of the other automaton, which was charging him from across the room. He had to think fast.

Leaping to his feet, he cast around for a weapon. His abdomen and chest were on fire as his movements pulled on the stitches, tearing at his damaged flesh. The automatons, scrambling over the coat stand, had been reduced to nothing but relentless killing machines, stripped of their harmless guise as servants and work hands. Their gears churned as they both came at him again, swinging their bladed hands towards him, one of them only a matter of inches from his face. He fell back, banging his head awkwardly against the wall. Trying to ignore the burst of sharp pain that flared at the back of his skull, he dove to the left, sending the office equipment skitting across the tiles as he tried to take cover behind the small gas stove, forcing his way over the top of it and onto the floor on the other side. Between the stove and Miss Castle's overturned desk, he found himself trapped in the corner of the room, with nowhere else to turn. The one thing in his favour was the fact that the automatons seemed unable to work out how to clamber over the furniture, instead choosing to reach over and slash at him with their razor-sharp finger blades. He tried to stay out of their reach.

Litefoot glanced around in desperation, still looking for something he could use to defend himself. Above him on the wall was an ancient "Chinese fowling piece" – though it was likely made in Birmingham, his father was inordinately proud of. He grabbed for it, hastily pulling it free of its mount and showering himself with a spray of plaster. Lacking in ammunition, and balancing it in both hands, he swung the weapon in a wide arc, using it to parry the outstretched hands of the mechanical men. It was weighty and it strained his already exhausted body to lift it properly. Nevertheless, at present it was all he had to keep the automatons at bay.

He hefted the weapon as high as he could and brought it down heavily upon the chest of the automaton on his left. There was an almighty crash. The wooden stock of the weapon splintered in his hands with the impact, and the lock buckled, sending the barrel banging loudly to the floor. The automaton staggered backwards for a moment, a large dent in its brass casing, but then just as quickly was able to reassert itself and come at him again over the top of the stove. This time, catching him on the backswing, the automaton's hand struck him hard in the arm, and he cried out as the blades sliced his flesh, drawing blood. He snatched his arm back instinctively and managed to scrabble out of the reach of the machine. He could hardly believe the resilience of the device; the blow from the rifle had practically collapsed its chest, even cracking the glass porthole that contained the blue electrical light that powered its brain, but the unit seemed unconcerned and continued to mount its attack. Litefoot threw the broken shaft of the axe at the other automaton, which knocked it aside to no effect. He knew it was only a matter of time before the machines worked out how to shift the reception desk out of the way to get to him.

Litefoot searched the walls for more weapons, thankful now that he his father had opted to have a small display of anthropological items from his own father's collection in the office. A few feet away, over the desk and on the wall above the fireplace was a flail. The weapon was a few hundred years old, but Litefoot knew from examining it in the past that the shaft was still firm. He imagined the star-shaped iron ball on the end of the chain would make an effective weapon against the automatons, puncturing the relatively soft brass of their skulls and damaging the delicate cog-work in their mechanical brains. It was a blunt tool for a blunt job. He just had to work out how to get to it.

He measured the distance with his eyes. If he leapt up onto the overturned desk he could be at the weapon in two strides, but equally, he ran the risk of one of the automatons catching hold of his leg as he tried to rush by, pulling him to the ground whilst he was unbalanced and sticking him with its vicious claws. He looked over at them. The two machines continued to try to swipe at him from behind the stove. The situation was not about to improve, unless he made a decisive move. He had to risk it. There were no other weapons anywhere in reach, makeshift or not, and if he waited any longer the automatons would, by sheer relentlessness, find a way to reach him. Jumping up onto the desk did not seem like a good option, however, especially in his present condition, so instead he decided to see if he could reach the weapon by other means.

Standing, his back to the wall in an effort to stay out of the reach of the questing brass fingers, Litefoot edged over towards the chimney breast. Keeping himself as flat as possible, he reached an arm around and used his fingertips to feel for the flail. If he stretched onto his tiptoes he could just about touch it, but he needed to get past the desk to be able to get a proper grip on the thing. He stared into the impassionate faces of the brass machines, watching their mirrored eyes spinning as they clutched for him, their minds programmed only to kill. "_If I get out of this alive_," he thought, "_Chapman and Villiers were going to have a great deal to answer to._"

Litefoot surged forward, feeling the blades of both automatons impaling the flesh and muscles of his upper arms. Pain blossomed, causing everything to go momentarily white, but he forced himself through it, knowing that this would be his only chance at survival. He hoped Doctor Ivanov's compound would continue to work its miraculous healing powers on these fresh wounds.

Reaching down, using his momentum to drive himself forward, he grasped hold of the underside of the desk and flipped it up towards the two machines, connecting with them both at waist height and sending them sprawling to the ground. Not waiting to see how quickly they would be able to get up, Litefoot jumped up and grabbed hold of the flail, pulling it down from the display hooks on the wall. He gave it an experimental swing in his right hand, and then, charging forward towards one of the mechanical men, he arced the ball and chain above his head, slamming it down with as much power as he could muster and with all the technique of a champion conker player – although it had been _years _since he last partook in that pastime – across the side of its skull as it struggled to get up from underneath the desk. It split with a dull thud, cracking along the seam between the access plate and the rest of the brass head. Litefoot gave a triumphant gasp, trying to free the spiked ball from where it had embedded itself in the inner workings of the machine's head. The damaged automaton kicked out spasmodically a few times, its feet clacking on the tiles, and then it was still.

Litefoot did not have time to celebrate. He looked over his shoulder to see the other automaton pulling free of the desk and climbing easily to its feet. He noted it was the unit that he had struck earlier with the fowling piece, and decided to aim his weapon at the glass plate in its chest, tackling an existing weak point in the hope of disabling it faster. He had no idea whether this would have the desired effect, but it had to be worth a try. His arms ached where the gashes in his flesh were weeping blood down his sleeves. He knew he could not go on much longer.

Litefoot yanked the flail free of the fallen machine, half-noticing that in doing so he had exposed something fleshy and wet inside. But he did not have time to look as the other automaton was coming up on him fast. He swung the flail in a wide arc around his head, feeling his shoulder scream in protest as he slammed the weapon against the automaton's chest, shattering the glass plate and causing electricity to arc out into the room in a spectacular display of shimmering blue light. The machine stumbled from side-to-side for a moment, tottering on its feet, before collapsing to the floor, its brass skeleton still fizzing and crackling with raw electricity.

Litefoot dropped the flail and sank to his knees, exhausted. He remained there for a few moments, straining to catch his breath. Electrical current continued to crackle over the destroyed skeleton of the second automaton.

He looked around the ruination of the surgery; Sister Elisabeth was not going to be happy – decidedly agitated to put it mildly. He flexed his shoulders, cringing with the pain and held his arms up before him, cautiously exploring the knife wounds through the fabric of his shirt. They did not seem as severe as he had imagined, although the pain was excruciating. He tried to push it to the back of his mind. He looked over at the spilled workings of the automaton's head he had destroyed. There was definitely something wet and organic seeping out from underneath the brass fittings.

Cautiously, Litefoot used the edge of the overturned desk to pull himself upright, and tentatively approached the brass skeleton. He prodded it with his foot, making sure that there was no spark of life left inside of it. It flopped lifelessly onto its back. Deciding it was probably safe, he leaned closer, using his fingers to pry the skull open a little further so he could see properly inside. He turned the head towards the light. Then, appalled, he dropped the skull to the floor with a loud clatter and stepped away from the gruesome sight, putting his sleeve to his mouth in disgust. His fingers dripped with sticky fluid.

Instead of the clockwork mechanisms that he had been expecting to find inside of the automaton's skull, there was a pinkish-grey, fleshy human brain. Litefoot fought back the rising bile in his throat. Then, needing to confirm his suspicion, he retrieved the flail from where he had discarded it on the floor it a few feet away, and set about splitting open the head of the other unit. A couple of sharp blows later and the skull had given way, revealing the same disturbing sight as before; the spattered grey matter of a human organ. He leaned one arm against the wall, trying to process the information; human organs inside of clockwork men, an atmotic ship crash, missing fathers, a theft of antiquities… what _was_ going on?

Suddenly, a thought began to resolve itself in his mind; the stirrings of a theory taking shape. Wasting no further time, he snatched up his coat from the floor and retrieved a cane from the shattered coat stand, and charged from the surgery as fast as possible, grimacing as his wounds throbbed painfully not thinking to secure the evidence at the scene. He hurtled through the entrance and burst out onto the street, startling a flock of pigeons. Without pausing, he ran directly to the street and flagged down the first cab and leapt onboard, flinging himself into the seat.

The driver leaned down and glanced in through the window, "Where to sir?"

"Scotland Yard, as quickly as you can stir those horses into action!" Litefoot missed his car – though he could retrieve it from the Yard.

_Scotland Yard_

"William!" Litefoot burst into the office of the artificer and stumbled over to his desk, still dripping blood from the fresh wounds in his upper arms.

Madsen looked him up and down with an expression of dismay on his face. "Good God, Edison. Shouldn't you be resting? Look at the state of you. You're bleeding all over the place. Didn't the Fixer do his work?" Madsen stood with hissing pneumatics, as if he were about to move to Litefoot's aid.

Litefoot, gasping for breath, staggered across the room and slumped into a chair. "I'm fine," he wheezed, somewhat red-faced from running. "But I think I have the solution."

"What?" Madsen came round from behind his desk, pushing his spectacles further up his nose as he unpacked a first aid kit to dress Litefoot's wounds and injuries. "Look, before you start any of that, what's going on with all this blood? Are you hurt?"

Litefoot emitted a gasping laugh. "A little, I have just fought off two of those automaton devices in my office."

Madsen looked flustered. "It seems you are getting a little too close to the truth – or _a _truth."

Litefoot breathed heavily, "What do you mean '_a_' truth? Someone sent two automata to my office in an attempt to assassinate me."

"Havelock?" Madsen pondered, "Unlikely, he seemed to prefer… half-breed amalgams of machine and flesh. You saw McGeehan and those Reivers that sliced the cab apart."

Litefoot wiped the perspiration from his forehead, "But these were more your typical automata – or what we have been led to believe as being 'typical';" Litefoot nodded as he realised what Madsen was saying, "However, they had hidden blades in their fingers, and worse, human brains in their brass skulls."

Madsen shook his head, lowering himself into his wheelchair by the workbench. "I think that you'd better start at the beginning." He set about bandaging his friend's arms and hands.

Litefoot rested his head against the back of the chair. "What do you know about Pierre Villiers?"

"Only what you've told me, that he's a genius; that he was exiled from his own country for experimenting on waifs and strays; that he created the automata for Chapman to market, nothing more than that." Madsen ceased from his first aid, "There y' go. Right little mummy aren't you?" Litefoot looked to his arms and hands; indeed they did resemble those of a mummified individual. Madsen smiled and poured tea from a pot into two cups.

Litefoot nodded. "It is that bit about experimenting on waifs and strays that is interesting me at the moment." He took the cup from Madsen. "What _exactly_ was he doing? What was so bad that his own countrymen had him banished from Paris, renowned the world over as a place of free thinking and bohemian eccentricity?"

"You have lost me."

"No, William. I think this has a bearing on our case. Villiers has a fascination with the inner workings of the mind. He told me he has always wanted to build the perfect automaton. What if the device he showed me in his workshop was _not_ it? What if it could _not_ do everything he wanted it to? Perhaps it was that drive for perfection, and his experiments on those wastrels back in Paris, which provided him with the necessary knowledge to successfully transplant a human brain into clockwork housings. Perhaps _that_ is his idea of the perfect automaton device?"

Madsen looked appalled, an odd look on the hardened veteran.

"I saw it with my own eyes, William. I cracked open their brass skulls on my office floor and saw the human organs inside. I think _that_ is why we did not find the pilot in the – wreckage of the _Lady Charlotte_. Chapman probably had his man Stokes remove it before anyone else got to the scene. If we had found it there we would have taken it away for investigation, and would likely have discovered what they were up to."

Madsen took a drink of his tea, grimacing at the thought. "But where are they getting the organs from?"

"I can not be certain, but I suspect that is where the link to the missing women, these mysterious, headless bodies in the Thames. It all makes a horrible kind of sense. They employ someone to murder paupers in the Whitechapel slums, using strangulation as the method of despatch so as not to damage the brains. Then they make an arrangement with the mortuary attendant to harvest the brains of the victims, first making sure that those victims are not robbed, so that the attendant can pocket whatever he finds on the bodies as they come through the mortuary. It is a neat arrangement, however despicable it may be."

"So," Madsen placed his cup on the workbench, "Why women?"

"The smaller size of a female brain would fit perfectly into the skull of the Villiers' automaton."

"Why not a child's then?"

Litefoot shakes his head, "Lack of maturity? I do not know exactly, as I say it is only a theory."

"So you think the reason for the atmotic ship crash is a malfunction in the 'linkage' between the human brain and the automaton frame? Did the pilot simply lose control?"

Litefoot shook his head. "That I can not answer with any certainty, although I suspect Villiers is far too clever for that to be the case. I don't think it was the interface that went wrong. I think it was the brain."

"You mean they had trouble keeping the brain alive outside of the body?"

"Not at all, Dawlish has reported some success in keeping the brains of animals alive in glass jars for months. It is only a matter of time before _someone _does it with human." Litefoot shuddered at the thought and Madsen winced. "Think about it. There was a second scarab needed for the altar – the one containing the 'regeneration radiations' – what if that was what was in the package listed as being aboard the _Lady Charlotte _addressed for Lord de Salem? What if these radiations somehow leached from the crate and caused a healing in the brain of the pilot?"

Madsen paled, "You mean…"

"Yes. The brain repaired itself from whatever it is Villiers does to integrate it into the automaton chassis and rejects the new frame causing this failure."

"My God, they'd be like ticking bombs." Madsen shook his head. "Do we have any idea how many there are?"

"No. We may need to enlist the entire Metropolitan police force to aid us in decommissioning the whole lot. But first we have got to tackle Chapman and Villiers. I say we get over there this morning and try to catch them on the hop. They may not yet be aware that their assassination attempt this morning was a failure."

Madsen nodded. "Very well," He eyed Litefoot warily. "Are you sure you're fit?"

Litefoot smiled. "I'm far from fit. But I'll live."

Madsen downed the last of his tea. "What does Miss Jago make of all this?"

Litefoot nearly spat his drink across the room. "Oh God, I hadn't even considered. What if they sent the automata after her, too?" He jumped to his feet. "We need to get over there now, as fast as we can."

"Right you are." Madsen placed his empty cup on the table and made straight for the door. "Come on. We'll take my carriage. We'll be there in no time."

"I pray that will be enough time enough." The two men hurried from the room as fast as a man in a wheelchair and another with a crippled leg and injuries sufficient to fell a bull elephant could muster.

15. Back to the Foundry

_Battersea_

The sun was a watery, baleful eye that glared down at the Thames through a bruised eyelid of rain clouds, as Litefoot, Henri and Madsen rolled over the Chelsea Bridge in the back of the police carriage, on their way to Battersea and the manufactory of _Chapman & Villiers Air Transportation Services_. Litefoot regretting that Inspector Hawthorne could not be involved as this was outside his command area, but if there was some link to the Hampton Road murder then maybe…

Litefoot watched Madsen leaning towards the front window of his carriage urging the vehicle to go faster by sheer will power alone, straining to take in the sight of the embankment as it hove into view. He followed the other man's gaze. The scene across the river was murky, the mist and rain forming a thick veil across the landscape. The rain had begun to fall not long after they had set out from Miss Jago's home and the two of them had quickly decided to huddle together in the waiting vehicle. Madsen had stopped only to send word to Scotland Yard, requesting uniformed assistance, but they all knew it would be some time before the Yard were able to muster their men. In the meantime, Litefoot had been anxious to press on, to head directly to Battersea and confront Chapman and Villiers, before the two of them realised the police were finally on to them.

Litefoot looked up at the dark clouds that were scudding across the sky, brooding with intent. The rain would continue well into the afternoon, if he was any judge of the weather.

Across the river, the warehouses of _Chapman & Villiers_ were squat mounds of red brick, imposing even amongst the other industrial buildings that sat to either side of them. A number of atmotic ships were still tethered to the roofs, tousled by the driving wind and precipitation. They bobbed fluidly but remained fixed in place by long coils of rope. "Impressive, is it not?"

Madsen turned to look at him, his expression fixed. He nodded, "Bigger than I had imagined."

"Indeed. Wait until you see inside. The manner in which they construct the new atmotic craft is magnificent." He allowed his eyes to wander to the floor, biting back his enthusiasm. "If only they had contented themselves with that rather than trying to revolutionise the world with their clockwork men." He shook his head.

"Litefoot, my friend, people like that will never be content with their lot. Whatever they say, it's not about changing the world. It's about wielding power. They may call themselves philanthropists, but in truth they're just as greedy as the rest of us, just as hungry for money and validation, in this case, probably more so."

Litefoot met his friend's eyes. "You are right, of course. About Chapman at least, but I think Villiers is a different matter entirely. I do not see that he is at all interested in money or validation. I think he sees his work as a personal challenge. He has no grand schemes to change the world; he wants only to be left alone to his amoral experiments, as terrible as they are."

Madsen sighed. "That may be so, but it does not alter the fact that together they have committed the most heinous of crimes. There's no redemption to be had here. They're both for the noose."

Litefoot nodded and leaned back in his seat. He glanced at Henri, who had been listening to the conversation from her place beside him. She did not seem to have anything she wanted to add to the discussion and instead turned away, pretending to distract herself with the view out of the window. He wondered for a moment about what she was thinking. Far from being the vibrant, almost independent woman he had met earlier in the week, this Miss Jago seemed withdrawn and circumspect. He found himself missing the prior feisty version and wishing she would return. Maybe once Havelock released their fathers, she would be.

Litefoot closed his eyes, lulled by the motion of the carriage, and trying to banish the thought from his head that if their fathers did return, Henri would find other pursuits and he would lose her friendship.

His wounds ached desperately. He hoped that soon the affair would be over so that he could spend a few days holed up in his rooms, convalescing. For now, though, he had work to do, and he knew that whatever evidence the three of them may have at their disposal, Joseph Chapman was not going to willingly accept his fate.

The carriage rolled on, its wheels clicking loudly on the cobbled road as they neared their destination.

The reception area of _Chapman & Villiers Air Transportation Services_ was devoid of activity when the trio burst in, each of them wrapped up against the wind and the rain, Madsen's pneumatic leg braces hissing as he moved and his cane clicking on the tiled floor. Chapman's clerk, Soames, sat in position behind the mahogany desk, his hands forming a thin steeple of fingers on the desk before him. He glanced up indifferently coolly dispassionately as the door clicked shut behind the visitors.

"Ah, good day to you, Doctor Litefoot, Miss Jago and… associate." The man's eyes flicked over the faces of three newcomers, like a lizard assessing its prey. "I am afraid that you will find Mister Chapman is unavailable today. I hope you have not had a wasted journey." He offered them a sickly smile.

Madsen turned to Henri, inclining his head in the direction of the stairs. She grasped his meaning immediately and crossed the room in a few quick strides, mounting the bottom step and starting up in the direction of Chapman's office.

Soames leapt from his seat, "Really, Doctor Litefoot!" He placed his hands on the desk before him. "I assure you Mister Chapman is not here. There is no need to contest my word on the matter."

Litefoot glared at him but said nothing. A moment later, Henri appeared at the top of the staircase and gave a curt shake of her head. Chapman obviously was not in his office. Still, Litefoot could not find it in himself to trust the clerk. Henri moved back into the office to look around.

Soames complained. "This is trespass!"

Madsen hissed his way over to the clerk's desk. "Where is he?"

Soames looked exasperated. "Honestly? I can not say. He arrived this morning as usual, took his tea in his office and then went about his business. I haven't seen him for at least two or three hours. He told me to keep his diary free for today."

Madsen clenched his fist, exasperated. But before he resorted to violence, he turned to Litefoot. "What now?" Litefoot shrugged. "Villiers, I suppose."

Soames sighed dramatically. "Gentlemen, madam, without an appointment I really must insist-"

He stopped short when Madsen drew and raised his pistol, leaned over the desk and placed the tip of the barrel against the man's chest, tapping it gently. "If you have _any_ sense about you at all, you'll stop your insipid drivel," Madsen sneered, "and scamper away from this place before you find yourself implicated in affairs you'd rather stay out of!"

The clerk looked appalled, and stepped back from the point of the man's barrel, his legs bumping into his chair behind the desk. He opened and closed his mouth as if unsure how to respond to the threat. "I... oh…"

"Shut up, man! My name is William Madsen and I hold the rank of Detective Sergeant with Scotland Yard." Madsen leant his cane against the desk and with his now-free hand, removed his dark glasses, allowing Soames to register his mechanical eye's baleful ruby glare. "My colleagues and I intend to locate _Mister_ Villiers for an interview. You can either assist us by pointing us in the right direction, or," he draws back the hammer of his pistol, "you can choose to create a situation for yourself. I fear the latter option will not work out for the best."

Soames shrivelled away from the Detective Sergeant, clearly terrified by the man. "I believe you'll find him in his workshop on the other side of the manufactory site, sir."

Madsen nodded and withdrew his pistol. The other man sighed visibly with relief. "Good. Now, be a good little lackey and bugger off." Madsen laughed, "I assure you; you do _not_ wish to be associated with this business any more than y' already are." He turned to Henri, who was crossing the room to join them once again, "Ready?"

Henri nodded.

"Then come on, Edison. Lead the way."

Litefoot shook his head in disbelief. "You never fail to impress me." He held his arm out for Henri, as much because he feared that, without her aid, his injuries may soon overcome him. She took it, and together they set off in the direction of the manufactory proper, following the route they had taken during their previous visit, when Chapman himself had been serving as their guide. He suddenly realised he had known the woman barely a week and yet could hardly think of his life without her in it.

The hanger was suffused with the same biting chill as the city outside of the walls, but at least, Litefoot considered, it was sheltered from the wind and the rain. He pulled his overcoat tighter around his shoulders, and watched as the others did the same. Below, on the hanger floor, a new gondola was under construction, and the scene was nearly identical to the one Litefoot and Henri had witnessed a day or so before, although the workmen in this instance were still assembling the basic shell rather than fitting the interior. Litefoot leaned over the rail, searching the floor for signs of Chapman. He was nowhere to be seen.

Madsen approached the edge of the metal walkway, clasping the rail with his left hand. He surveyed the industrious scene below. "You're right, Litefoot, it's a very impressive operation indeed."

Litefoot nodded, fighting back a shiver. He knew he had lost a lot of blood, and consequently he was feeling the cold somewhat more than usual. The bandages and salves Madsen had applied before they left for Henri's home had helped to stem the tide, however, and he was convinced now that the worst of it was over, for the time being, at least. "Yes, this is where they assemble the passenger gondolas. The next hall is where they build the frames for the main body of the vessel." He waved his hand. "Come on, we have to pass that way to get to Villiers' workshop, anyway."

They made their way along the metal walkway and down onto the main floor of the hanger, where the workmen seemed to ignore their presence entirely, preferring to continue with the task of constructing the gondola regardless. The place was filled with the loud din of industry, and Litefoot wrinkled his nose at the smells of oil and scorched wood.

The next hanger was equally as busy, with the skeleton of a vessel being hoisted into place by the pneumatic cranes that ran around the edges of the large room. Madsen looked up, clearly impressed, as Litefoot led him past the foreman, who was bellowing instructions to the men working the cranes, trying to make his voice heard over the noise. Sparks dripped from welding arcs high above them. They edged around the machinery and exited the main atmotic works, passing along the short corridor that led them out into the smaller room that constituted the automaton production line.

The room was crowded and hot, the steam-driven presses firing noisily as they worked at incredible speeds, pistons pumping furiously as they pushed out the brass components that would be used in the assembly of the clockwork men. A swarthy-looking man in a pair of grey overalls looked up when they entered the room, downed his tools and passed the chest plate of the automaton unit he was working on to another, smaller man who had been assisting him. He made his way over to the group of three interlopers, wiping the grime and oil from his face with his back of his sleeve.

"Can I help you?"

Litefoot stepped forward. "Yes. We have an appointment with Monsieur Villiers. The clerk on the desk in reception sent us through."

The man eyed them warily. "An appointment, you say? Can I see some identification?"

Madsen bustled forward impatiently. He pulled a small leather wallet from his pocket and flicked it open, presenting it to the man. Inside was an official badge and papers from Scotland Yard, bearing the crest of Her Majesty. The man looked perplexed, as if he were unsure whether he should let the Detective Sergeant and his companions through to see his employer, or why they should even be interested in speaking to the reclusive scientist. Eventually, though, he seemed to come to a decision. He stood aside and waved them at the door to Villiers' workshop with a shrug. "He's in there."

"Thank you." Litefoot inclined his head in gratitude and approached the door to the workshop. He could not knock due to the bandages so, instead reached out for the handle and giving the door a gentle shove. It swung open into the room to reveal the same cluttered work bench they had seen before, buried beneath a vast array of components, and no sign of the man they were looking for. Litefoot ushered the others through, and then closed the door behind him.

Madsen was frowning, "Where are those damned fellows hiding?" He cast around, trying to make sense of the cluttered workshop. He looked flustered, as if he thought that the two men had somehow managed to get away.

Litefoot was just about to respond, when Henri patted him gently on the arm. "Look!"

He followed her gaze to where she was pointing. The automaton in the corner – the demonstration model they had seen during their previous visit – was rising out of its chair and edging towards them, its left arm outstretched, its fingers opening and closing like the shining pincers of a brass crab. Its feet clacked on the tiled floor as it walked toward the group.

Madsen, seeing the sinister-looking device making a beeline for him, grabbed his cane with both hands and gave the brass knob a sharp twist to the right, "Oh no, you don't!"

The shaft of the cane began immediately to unpack itself, and now that he had a better opportunity to observe the mechanism, Litefoot found that he was truly impressed. Small hinges unfurled at the top of the cane, causing thin brass rods to uncouple from the main shaft of the weapon so that they formed a kind of metal cage around the device. The central column began to spin, rapidly, generating sparks of light within the cage itself. There was a sudden flicker and then blue light arced along the length of the weapon, running back-and-forth along the conductor rod with a sharp electrical hum, from the handle all the way down to the tip of the shaft. Madsen, raising the weapon before him like a rapier, wasted no time. He jabbed the point of the cane towards the chest of the shambling automaton, the sharp tip actually managing to pierce the brass plate and bury itself deep in the heart of the clockwork device. Pulsing electrical energy leapt from the cane into the delicate internal mechanisms of the automaton, seeming to somehow either overload the device or else cause its delicate clockwork brain to seize. There was a grinding sound from deep within the machine, accompanied by the stink of burning oil, and then the device spasmed twice and dropped to the floor, rendered useless by Madsen's masterful attack.

Litefoot edged forward and leaned over the unit. The blue light that had previously flickered beneath the porthole in its chest had gone out and its eyes had ceased spinning. He looked up at Madsen, who was busy repacking his cane. "Good show!"

Madsen smiled. "Now you see why I always endeavour to have the device by my side. One never knows when it may come in useful."

Henri sidled up beside them. "When you two gentlemen are finished congratulating one another," Litefoot smiled, the old Miss Jago seemed to be back, "I have something interesting to show you." She stepped away again, crossing the room to where the automaton had been sitting when they first entered the room. Litefoot could not help but emit a short chuckle when he saw the scowl on Madsen's face.

He made his way over to Henri. "What is it?"

"Here." She ran her hands over the wall, demonstrating the thin outline of a door, hidden in the wall behind the automaton's chair. "I wonder if this is where we may find our quarry."

Madsen put a hand on her shoulder. "You are to be congratulated, Miss Jago. I will wager this is exactly where our quarry will be hiding. Stand back, please?" He waved the others back from the wall to give himself room to manoeuvre the chair out of the way. It was relatively light and he lifted it easily over the prone form of the automaton, placing it to one side of the workbench. Returning to the wall, he ran his fingers around the edges of the door, which bizarrely appeared to have been cut directly out of the wall, as if someone had simply chopped a section of the wall away and then reattached it on a pair of well placed hinges. It was decorated in the same dark wood panelling as the rest of the room. Madsen admired the handiwork; it was an exceptional piece of engineering, and if Miss Jago had not noticed the thin outline of the door it was likely they would have abandoned their search of the workshop and moved on. He ran his hands over it again. There were no obvious switches, handles or triggers in the vicinity. Not knowing what else to do, Litefoot gave the door a push. He felt it give a little. He pressed more firmly, until there was a clicking sound, and then stood back as the door swung free towards him. He caught hold of it in his left hand as it came towards him, peering cautiously into the brightly lit chamber it revealed on the other side.

Pierre Villiers stood beside a low mortuary slab, in a room that had been fitted out like a hospital surgery. White tiles covered the floor, walls and ceiling, and bright gas lamps burned with a white intensity in fixtures situated along each of the walls. A trestle table had been set up beside the slab, holding an array of tools, knives, lenses and other items of surgical equipment, and Villiers himself was stooped over the empty skull of an automaton, preparing to transfer a human brain into the cavity. The organ itself rested beside him on the slab, suspended in a large glass demijohn filled with a pinkish fluid that bubbled effervescently, as if it were connected to an air supply of some sort. The entire setup reminded Litefoot disconcertingly of the mortuary; cold, clinical and filled with the overwhelming stench of death.

Villiers did not look up as the trio filed into the room, their shoes clicking on the porcelain tiles. He was alone, with no sign of Chapman to be found. Litefoot cleared his throat. After a moment, Villiers looked up with the briefest of glances, before turning away and continuing with his work. He talked as his fingers danced around inside the automaton's brass skull. "Docteur, I did not expect to be seeing you again so soon."

Litefoot stumbled. "I think, Monsieur Villiers; that you did not expect to be seeing me again at all"

The Frenchman shrugged, "As you say." He continued to fiddle with the disembodied head.

"They are not quite as infallible as one has been led to believe, are they, these automatons you have created?"

Villiers reached for one of the tools on the trestle table beside him and began cranking something noisily within the brass head. "No. But they are beautiful though, are they not; a wonder of modern science? Do not tell me that you are not intrigued, Docteur, that you are not at least a little bit interested in how I managed to make them work." He glanced up, looking at Litefoot, although his eyes seemed to be focused on something else that the others could not see. He cleared his throat. "Here, let me show you what I am doing."

Madsen started forward, brandishing his cane in one hand and pistol in the other, but Litefoot put an arm out to stop him. "Just a few moments, it pays to know with what we're dealing."

Villiers laughed heartily. "I knew it!" He moved around the mortuary table, turning the automaton's head towards Litefoot, so that they could see clearly inside the empty skull. There was a short brass spike at the base of the cavity, with four exceptionally fine filaments trailing out from a separate point just below the tip of the spike itself. Villiers put his hand inside the cavity. When he spoke, his voice was full of arrogance and pomp. "The human organ is placed in this cavity, here, lowered gently onto the brass spike to hold it firmly in place. The wires are then threaded precisely through the cortex until they engage with the sensitive response centres in the left and right hemispheres of the brain. Electrical stimuli, generated by the movement of the automaton device itself, are then fed back-and-forth along these wires to create a simple neural interface that enables the organ to receive input from the world outside of the machine's casing." He clacked his tongue against his teeth. "This is the conduit by which my creations interact with the external world. It simply penetrates the brain stem and latches on." He grinned, as if satisfied that his audience was giving him his due attention. "Once it is working we pack the rest of the cavity with a preserving jelly to ensure the organ does not degenerate too severely, or become damaged if the device is required to make any sharp movements." He paused, drumming his hand on the table, before reaching for the large glass jar that held the harvested brain and sliding it across the tabletop so they could see. Litefoot heard Henri swallow and gag.

"But what about the original personality, the person whose brain you have stolen? Would that not present once the organ is connected to this device?"

Villiers practically scoffed. "We bypass the original personality, of course!" He waved his free hand in the air, "Consciousness is simply a by-product of the human organism. It is not necessary for life to be self-aware. It is certainly not necessary for an automaton to be self-aware. In truth, in attaching a human brain to the conduit I am simply engaging the neural structure of the organ, making use of the existing nervous system and the brain's inherent processing functions. It is a much cheaper and less time consuming option than building a new component to do the same job, although of course, as you've seen, the latter is indeed possible." He glanced at Henri, and smiled. "At its most basic level, Docteur, the human being is essentially a machine."

Litefoot nodded, appalled by Villiers' arrogance and yet somehow still intrigued enough to want understand the elaborate details of the process the man had developed; the melding of man and machine. "So what went wrong?"

Villiers glowered at him, "Nothing! My device functions perfectly."

Madsen, impatient and keen to draw the conversation to a close, decided to speak up at that point. "What of the crash, and all these reports we have had of your machines going haywire?"

"What of them?" Villiers was enraged, "The human organs! Joseph brought me faulty organs." He banged his fist on the mortuary slab. "In the early days I had no mind to enquire where Joseph was obtaining the human brains that I needed for my work. Frankly, I had no reason to care. At least not until some aristocratEgyptologist just back from an expedition began claiming his machine had been exhibiting dangerous and unruly behaviour. I had the machine brought here for testing, and when I opened up the skull cavity I found the organ was riddled with signs of degeneration – the organ was decomposing."

Henri spoke softly. Her voice sounded remarkably calm. "So that's why the _Lady Charlotte_ went down?"

Villiers shook his head. "No," he shrugged, "Not exactly. Joseph had the pilot unit removed from the wreckage before the police arrived. The device was returned to my workshop. The casing was badly damaged by the flames, but there was no mistaking the signs. The brain had begun to _re_generate inside the brass skull."

"_Re_generate? Is that-" Henri looks to Litefoot, "Would that be possible?"

"If what we have learned about the altar is correct then yes."

Villiers looks between the pair utterly confused. "Then Docteur, you are saying the crash was not _my _fault?" He asks hopefully.

Litefoot sighed. "Monsieur Villiers, the crash happened _because_ you implanted brains into brass skeletons. Even with your fabled 'preserving jelly' worked, the brain requires oxygen and a blood flow. That is _why_ your Egyptologist had problems – his automaton was simply decomposing as you said. If our researches are correct, then the one aboard the _Lady Charlotte _is an aberration in this. _It _was exposed to radiations that enhanced the brain's natural healing abilities. The brain rejected the body." Litefoot glanced at Madsen, before stepping forward towards Villiers. "In another time, if the technology had developed in different circumstances, without the need to resort to murder, you would be heralded as a genius, Villiers. Yet the path you have taken in this instance, however, has reduced you to nothing but a common criminal." Litefoot put his hand on the automaton's head to hold it still. "You do understand that you're going to have to come with us?"

Villiers nodded slowly. "May I just-" There was a terrifying bang.

The sound seemed to reverberate around the entire room.

Villiers slumped to the floor, blood streaming from a bullet hole in his forehead, just above his right eye. The white tiles on the wall behind him were spattered with a bright spray of blood and brain matter. Henri screamed. Litefoot spun around on his heel to see Chapman framed in the doorway, clutching a revolver that he turned to point directly at Litefoot's face. Smoke curled in lazy curlicues from the end of the discharged barrel.

"Never could keep his mouth shut, the arrogant bastard."

Chapman flicked his hair away from his face, eyeing the three of them carefully. Henri shifted slightly and Chapman waved the gun at her. "Not a single move, Miss Jago, or your beloved Doctor gets a bullet in the head, just like poor old Pierre." These last few words were delivered with a nasal sneer. He took them all in with a sweep of the barrel. "Now, we're going to do things my way." He indicated with his head, "Litefoot, over there with the girl."

Litefoot eased himself around to stand beside Henri.

"Whatever happens today, Chapman, this is going to follow you. You can't keep running forever."

Chapman shook his head, "Oh please, don't patronise me, Doctor. You really should know better than that." He turned to Madsen. "You, old man, your turn next; get over there and join them in the corner." Madsen turned slowly towards the industrialist. He made to make a cautious step towards Henri and Litefoot, but then altered his momentum at the last moment, whipping up and out with his cane and connecting hard with Chapman's outstretched wrist. There followed a brief moment of chaos when, for Litefoot, the world seemed to suddenly stop. It was as if the whole scene had been cast into silence. The revolver went off, sending a bullet ricocheting off the tiled walls and causing Litefoot and Henri to duck involuntarily to avoid being hit. Chapman let out a howl of pain and clutched at his wrist, letting the revolver fall to the floor so that it skittered across the tiles towards Villiers' corpse. Madsen readied himself to strike another blow.

Then reality came crashing back in, and Chapman, reacting faster than the others, turned and ducked out of the doorway, leaping over the skeletal frame of the ruined automaton and fleeing the workshop as quickly as his legs would carry him. Madsen stooped to retrieve the revolver.

Litefoot and Henri looked to one another, and then, almost as if reaching the decision at exactly the same moment, they gave chase, each of them sprinting out of the door in pursuit of the fleeing criminal. Madsen was quick to follow, hefting the gun in his right hand.

Behind them, the corpse of Pierre Villiers stared unseeing through the open door, his jaw slack with death, blood pooled around the exit wound at the back of his splintered skull.

16. Chapman's Closing Gambit

Madsen charged after Chapman, his pneumatic callipers aiding greatly to his speed, throwing himself around the edge of Villiers' workbench and out into the main automaton production facility. The presses were pounding noisily, pistons firing in quick succession and clouds of steam hissing into the air, obscuring large swathes of the factory floor from view. It was obvious the men working the machines had not heard the gunshot over the racket of the production line, and none of them showed any signs of having noticed Chapman racing through the facility, either. If he was not found quickly, the industrialist would be able to lose himself in the factory with ease.

However, it was Litefoot, glancing frantically from side-to-side, who finally caught sight of the man darting out through a side door in the far, exterior wall. He followed as quickly as he could behind him, his entire body protesting at the strain as he dodged around the machines, nearly slamming into a man who was lifting a partially assembled automaton frame from a conveyor belt. The man cried out as he ducked out of the way, sending an array of components clattering to the floor. Litefoot carried running toward the exit on the other side of the factory floor.

The door was still swinging to-and-fro as Litefoot burst through; he skidded to a halt on the other side just in time to prevent himself from careening forward into the river. He planted his feet in the muddy bank. The water churned furiously a few feet from where he had come to a stop. Outlet pipes jutted rudely from the factory wall like a series of fat spokes, spewing brown sludge into the river.

The weather had deteriorated even further since their arrival at the manufactory, and rain lashed Litefoot's face in the driving wind. He cupped his hand to his eyes, trying to work out what had happened to Chapman. Surely he could not have thrown himself into the river? There was no sign of the man in the water, nor of any boat that he may have had berthed here for such an occasion. Of course, if he had gone in, it would not have taken much for him to drown, given the fierce weather.

There was a scuffing sound from behind him. Litefoot felt his hackles rising. He spun around to see Henri pushing her way out of the factory through the door he had just used himself. He offered her a slight shrug, but the gesture was lost as he hunched against the wind and the rain. He glanced along the length of the building, trying to work out where the other man had managed to flee. It was then that he noticed a cast iron ladder had been bolted to the wall, just to the left of the exit, beside one of the main outlet pipes. He looked up, turning his face towards the grey sky as he tried to make out where it led. The ladder ran all the way up to the top of the building, disappearing from view where it curved over the lip of the factory roof. Joseph Chapman was edging his way up the wet rungs, clambering up the metal frame towards the roof where an array of newly-built atmotic craft awaited him. Clearly that was how Chapman intended to execute his escape. He was already about halfway towards his salvation. The wind was blowing him awkwardly from side-to-side as he climbed, his hands slipping on the slick rungs, but despite the obvious danger Litefoot knew that he could not risk letting the man get away. If he made it to one of the atmotic ships he could be half way to the Continent within a couple of hours, and it would not take much for him to lose himself from there, disappearing into one of the darker corners of the Empire, or worse, to Asia and beyond.

Litefoot shouted to Henri, trying desperately to be heard over the rattling wind. "Get back inside. Wait for me in there." He pointed towards the door, where Madsen was standing, framed like a silhouette in the doorway. Then, without waiting to hear or acknowledge her response, he moved up onto the bottom rung of the ladder and began to climb, his right leg protesting once more from the old war wound. Deep in his mind, he thought that maybe that compound Fixer had given him was starting to wear off.

The going was treacherous. The wind dragged at him as if it were trying its very best to prise him free of the ladder. The rain had caused the metal rungs to become wet and slick, and the downpour continued to needle at his face, stinging his eyes and making it difficult to see. Within minutes his clothes had soaked through, and he shivered as he hauled himself upwards, clattering after Chapman on the ladder as fast as his damaged, aching body would carry him. The side of the factory was terribly exposed, and Litefoot tried not to think what would become of him if the wind did manage to throw him from the ladder. In all likelihood he would be dashed on the ground below, or else blown out into the river and a watery grave.

It was clear from the way in which Chapman had slowed that he was tiring as he approached the top of the building, and trying to ignore the burning pain in both shoulders, Litefoot pressed on, continuing his pursuit. He was closing on the other man, slowly but surely. He knew he could not allow his ailing body to slow him now.

He watched through squinting eyes as the industrialist reached the lip of the roof and threw himself bodily over the top of the ladder, disappearing temporarily from view. A moment later Litefoot did the same, using the strong muscles in his arms and shoulders to haul himself over the top of the ladder, swinging his legs around underneath him and landing heavily on his rear atop the tiled roof of the factory. He gasped for breath. The wind was howling amongst the chimney stacks, and a confusing web of thick ropes strained against the pull of the bobbing atmotic ships, which filled the sky overhead like a blanket of huge, glittering clouds. He searched the roof top for signs of Chapman. About thirty feet away, the industrialist, soaked to the bone, his long hair now lank and slicked to his face, had just finished loosening the tether on one of the vessels and was busy clambering aboard. Litefoot watched him mount the short flight of wooden steps beside the iron berthing ring and step across to the gondola, careful to watch his footing as the atmotic craft listed dangerously from side-to-side in the wind. He closed the door behind him. Litefoot was unsure whether Chapman had even realised that he had been followed this far; he appeared to have an almost casual, nonchalant air about him, and Litefoot hoped that it would be this that would prove to be Chapman's undoing, allowing the doctor to gain the element of surprise.

Not hesitating for a moment longer, Litefoot scrambled to his feet and charged after the other man. He scrambled up the wooden steps and flung the door to the gondola open. He hopped across, just as the vessel banked awkwardly to the left and the ground seemed to give way beneath him. With the door still open behind him, Litefoot steadied himself by catching hold of a sideboard that had been anchored to the deck just inside the foyer of the vessel. He found his footing as the atmotic craft seemed to right itself once again. Chapman was nowhere to be seen. Litefoot brushed water away from his eyes. The vessel began to drift away from its berth, rocking slowly back-and-forth in the harsh wind. Litefoot turned to close the door. There was a shout from the roof top. Catching hold of the doorframe, Litefoot peered out.

Henri was standing at the top of the wooden steps, her hair whipping up around her face in the wild gusts, her dress soaked through and clinging to her body, revealing the outline of her figure through the layers of fine fabric. She had obviously followed Litefoot up the ladder, and he had been so engrossed in chasing after Chapman that he had not quite failed to notice she had joined the pursuit. He cursed himself.

He leaned out of the gondola as far as he dare. "Henri! Get yourself to safety. I'll take care of Chapman."

She cupped her hands to her face and shouted something in return, but he could not make it out over the howl of the wind and the rain.

He watched in horror as she seemed to be readying herself for a jump.

"No! It's too risky!" He banged his fist against the doorframe in frustration. Henri shook her head, either an indicator that she had not heard him or a sign that she was choosing to ignore his words of warning. She coiled herself into a spring, leaping forward towards the open doorway of the gondola, flinging her arms out in an effort to catch hold of something as the vessel pitched and groaned in the wind. She slammed into the gondola, her hands questing frantically for purchase, one of them catching hold of the threshold at the base of the door, the other slipping dangerously free of the wet doorframe. She hung there by the tips of her fingers, buffeted by the wind as she tried desperately not to fall.

Litefoot acted immediately. He threw himself to the floor, reaching out to take hold of her free arm and bracing his legs against the furniture so that he would not slide forward if the vessel pitched again. His fingers cut into the soft flesh of her forearm, but it was all he could do to hang on. He could feel her wet arm slipping as he tried to get a better hold.

Beneath them, the vessel swung around haphazardly, at the mercy of the driving wind until Chapman could manage to start the engines and get the ship under some semblance of control. Litefoot stared down at Henri as the vessel edged out over the river, leaving the relative safety of the factory roof behind them. Henri kicked frantically as she realised the drop beneath her was now more than a hundred feet. The water below looked like shimmering glass.

"Hold still! I'll try to pull you in." Litefoot heaved with all of his might, feeling more of the stitches along his abdomen tearing open as he took all of Henri's weight, pulling her up into the gondola by her left arm. His face was a grimace of pain. Rain thrashed his back as it blew in through the open door, causing them both to splutter and spattering the interior of the foyer with water. Litefoot felt Henri's arm slip in his fingers. She screamed as she slid back an inch or more, before Litefoot managed to tighten his grip on her wet arm. "Use your other hand to lever yourself up."

Henri clawed at the threshold of the doorway as she tried to pull herself up, helping Litefoot to gain leverage. Suddenly, the atmotic ship bucked wildly as the engines kicked in with a high-pitched whine, and Henri swung out as the vessel banked, causing her to lose her grip on the threshold and leaving her clinging to nothing but Litefoot's arm. Litefoot cried out as she pulled heavily on his damaged shoulder, trying to prevent herself from falling to her death. Then, just as suddenly, the vessel banked about in the other direction and Henri swung closer again, her body smacking loudly against the side of the gondola. Litefoot took the opportunity to get her inside as quickly as possible.

"Use your feet to gain purchase. Come on!"

He hauled her bodily through the hatch, sliding her onto the foyer floor beside him. Then, before the vessel began to list again, he clambered to his knees and pulled the door shut behind her. The rain drummed noisily against the wooden panels.

Litefoot slumped against the sideboard behind him, drawing ragged breaths. He looked down at Henri. She lay still on her stomach, dripping with rainwater, her hair plastered across her face. Her left arm was bruised from where Litefoot had held on to her and her dress was torn, exposing a large expanse of her milky white thigh. Litefoot looked away scarlet with embarrassment. He cleared his throat "Are you hurt?" He glanced along the passageway as he talked, nervous that Chapman may happen upon them at any moment.

Henri's voice was a soft, quiet murmur. "No. Not hurt."

Litefoot sighed. "Thank goodness for that." He shook his head. "That was a rare situation you put yourself in, Miss Jago, I -"

"I'm sorry." She pushed herself up from the floor, suddenly aware of her torn skirt, getting herself into a sitting position, her legs tucked away underneath her. "You needn't go on. But now's not the time to discuss it."

He turned to meet her gaze. "You're right. I'll get after Chapman." He climbed to his feet. "You stay here."

Henri nodded. She was still gasping for breath. "I won't move a muscle."

Litefoot turned without saying another word and set off down the passageway, towards the cockpit, Chapman, and – he hoped – the end of this part of the affair.

The door to the cockpit was shut when Litefoot finally made his way along the passageway to confront Chapman. The engines hummed noisily and the vessel had righted itself, even though it still shuddered disconcertingly with the to-and-fro of the wind. Now it was climbing in altitude, rising high above the factory and the city below.

Litefoot was near exhaustion and anxious to get Chapman into custody. He knew the man had lost his firearm back at the factory, and suspected that he would not have hidden a replacement aboard a brand new ship, a vessel that could have only been completed by his factory a handful of days before this, its unplanned maiden voyage. Nevertheless, it was a gamble. Litefoot knew that he was far from his physical peak, and whilst Chapman was a dilettante and a fop, he was also unscrupulous and cunning. Litefoot only hoped that he still had surprise on his side. Readying himself, he reached out, took the door handle and gave it a sharp twist. He stepped back and allowed the door to swing open towards him. It clattered against the wall of the passage.

Chapman sat at the controls inside the small cockpit, his hands dancing over the vast array of levers, buttons and cranks that adorned the panels before him. Above, dials were set into a polished wooden dashboard, showing the altitude and speed of the vessel and fuel levels. Beyond that was the viewing port; a series of large, reinforced glass windows that offered a vast panoramic view of the city below, a kind of surreal birds-eye perspective of the landscape that Litefoot had never been granted before. The Thames wound away into the distance, whilst nearby the factories and industrial buildings of Battersea pumped ribbons of steam into the air. Further afield, Westminster was like a jewel amongst the rows of closely-built houses; proud buildings and public parks, museums and parliament. The city glittered in all its majesty, whilst all the while, the storm clouds formed a dark, brooding vault across the sky.

"Pretty, isn't it, Doctor Litefoot?" Chapman laughed gently underneath his breath as he spoke. "I often like to come up here – when the weather is better, admittedly – to take in the view of the city. London really is an amazing place to call home; the hub of the modern world. I shall be sorry to have to leave."

Litefoot stood in the doorway. "Why not take the ship down, Chapman? There's nowhere left to flee. If you come quietly now we can make it easier on you."

Chapman laughed, louder this time and shook his head. He turned in his seat to eye Litefoot. "You know it never works like that, Litefoot. Villiers was a fool, for all his genius. He would have walked willingly to the noose. Not me."

Litefoot clenched, worried as to what was likely to come next. "Then I am afraid we find ourselves at an impasse." He crept forward, ready to make a move.

Chapman got to his feet, careful to keep his pilot's chair safely between the two of them. He smiled slyly. "Indeed we do." He lashed out as he spoke, sending his fist flying towards Litefoot's face. Litefoot ducked quickly out of the way, feeling the motion of the movement as the fist brushed his cheek, ever so narrowly missing its target. He thrashed back at the other man, connecting hard with his sternum and causing him to stagger backwards, banging against the control panel. It was by no means a graceful move, but it was certainly functional. Chapman shook his head, disorientated, and then quickly regained his composure. He straightened himself and stepped away from the controls. The airship juddered, and both men realised at the same time that Chapman's fall had in some way knocked the controls out of line. Chapman glanced at the panel, and Litefoot took the opportunity to pounce, coming at him hard, his fist slamming brutally into Chapman's abdomen. Chapman buckled, gasping, but sent a blow of his own into Litefoot's gut as he doubled over. Litefoot fell back against the doorframe, jarring his shoulder painfully. He wrenched himself about to face Chapman, and the sharp movement finally proved too much for the Fixer's handiwork. He felt his stitches giving out and blood began to gush from the long wound in his side. His vision swam, and the world was momentarily limned in blackness. He sank to the floor, clutching his abdomen in agony.

It only took Chapman a moment to realise what had happened and he swept in on Litefoot, taking full advantage of the other man's wretched condition. He struck the doctor with a brutal backhand across the face, sending him sprawling to the floor, his cheek smarting from the impact. Litefoot coughed blood on to the floorboards in a sickly stream. Chapman laughed. He drove a booted foot hard into Litefoot's stomach, taking the wind out of him and leaving him gasping in pain and shock. Litefoot tried to roll away, to find a means to get upright again, but the passageway was too tight and his body protested. He simply could not muster the energy to move, no matter how much his mind screamed at his legs and arms to react. He was trapped in the narrow passage, with nowhere left to escape the other man's assault.

Chapman circled him, taking the opportunity to gloat. He stepped over Litefoot's prone form, turning him over with his boot like some common animal found dead by the roadside. He spat at Litefoot, and then set about pummelling him with a series of vicious kicks, punctuating his words with powerful outbursts of violence, "You insolent bastard! Did you really think that you'd be able to stop me? What you need to understand is that the sort of people who would benefit from the work Villiers and I were doing couldn't give a hoot about the loss of a few peasant lives, especially if it ends up making their own lives more comfortable. There'll be no public outcry. There'll be no noose." Chapman scoffed, "Her Majesty herself will probably give me a medal for my services to the Empire!"

Litefoot groaned, but could not find enough of a pause in the beating to emit a response. He brought his working left knee up to his chest in an effort to protect himself from the constant rain of blows. He felt warm with spilling blood.

"I suppose I'd better throw you-"

There was a dull thud, followed by a loud clanging sound, and the kicking ceased. Litefoot peeled open his eyes to see Chapman crumple to the floor. He banged his head against the wall as he fell, landing in a pile beside Litefoot on the floorboards. Litefoot looked up through one bruised eyelid.

Henri stood in the passageway, a large copper fire extinguisher clutched in her hands. She looked bedraggled, her jacket missing, her skirt torn and wet and her hair flung back messily over one shoulder. To Litefoot, however, she looked like a vision of Heaven itself.

"Thank you." His voice was a wet, warbling croak. He coughed and vomited more blood onto the floor beside him.

"Don't thank me, Edison. Just get up and help me fly this thing. If you hadn't realised, we're tumbling out of the sky like a dead weight. If we can't find a way to land this thing, all of this will have been in vain anyway." She dropped the fire extinguisher noisily to the floor. Litefoot groaned and put his hand against the wall in an effort to raise himself up. His hand slipped, leaving a dark smear of blood across its pristine white surface.

"I am going to need a little help to get up."

Henri looked pained, but her resolve was steely. She bent low over Chapman's unconscious body and grasped hold of Litefoot's hands. Placing her feet against the far wall she heaved him up into a sitting position. From there he was able to use the doorframe as leverage to pull himself upright. He staggered to the controls, unsteady on his feet.

Henri followed behind him. "Where do we start?"

"I have no idea." He slumped into the chair and grabbed hold of two levers that he hoped controlled the steering paddles on the underside of the vessel. He looked out through the viewing port. The city was coming up fast to meet them. They were set into a dangerous spiral, blown from side-to-side by the sharp winds, and he wondered if he was already too late to make a difference. The best option he could see at this stage was to try to steer the vessel towards the dark smear of the Thames. At least that way they would – could – be able to ditch it in the water without turning the whole ship into a blazing inferno. At least he hoped that would be the case. He had never been in an atmotic craft's bridge before, let alone tried to land one in a river.

Driven on by the image of the burnt cadavers he had seen in the wreck of the _Lady Charlotte_, Litefoot tugged hard on the levers, throwing his weight behind them as he attempted to right the vessel from its dangerous collision course. The engines coughed with the strain and the dials on the dashboard were all flickering in the red. If the engines were to get too hot they would run the risk of explosion, which in turn may ignite the balloon of gas above them if it were hydrogen if this craft were anything like her incinerated sister. He glanced out of the viewing port to see the city screaming towards them. He knew the engines would be no good to them now anyway. He reached over and flicked the switch on his right, cutting the engines. Immediately, the whine from below them ceased.

Henri rushed forward. "What are you doing?"

"Trust me," he half stood, leaning as hard as he could on the steering levers. "I am a doctor." He smiled and Henri smiled back. Through the viewing port he could see the nose of the vessel edging up against the harsh wind, but his ministrations were having little effect on the terrifying rate of their descent. He hoped beyond hope that the water would help to cushion the blow.

The airship dove into the Thames, spinning onto its side as it came down, first glancing off the surface like a skipping stone and then dipping down into the water, sending a vast wave ahead of itself as it slowed to a halt. The balloon bobbed on the surface of the river whilst the gondola, not designed with any buoyancy in mind, quickly began to take on water, pulling it slowly towards the bottom of the river.

Litefoot, powering on through adrenaline alone, scrambled up from the controls, frantically searching to ensure Henri was unhurt. He found her draped over the back of the pilot's chair, where she had braced herself during the landing. He put a hand to her cheek, tenderly. "Come on. I hope you can swim?" She nodded. "Help me with Chapman."

Henri looked down at the industrialist, still unconscious, even with the stirrings of river water beginning to lap at his upturned face. She nodded, "If we must."

Groaning, they reached down and each hooked an arm under Chapman's shoulder, and together they hauled him towards the exit. The passageway was taking on water more quickly than either of them could have imagined, and by the time they reached the main exit from the gondola they had found it was easier to swim, dragging Chapman along behind them, his head kept clear of the water. Thankfully the door had buckled during the landing and had sprung open, meaning it was a simple matter to navigate their way out of it one at a time, passing Chapman through between them. The river water was ice cold, and with the loss of blood Litefoot was beginning to feel faint, his muscles starting to seize up. He kicked furiously, resolved that he was not going to fail Henri now, not when they were so close to safety.

The wind and rain were still pounding when he eventually got free of the airship, and linking arms with Henri to form a platform for Chapman, they made as quickly as they could for the riverbank. It was only a matter of minutes before they were pulling themselves up onto the slick mud of the bank, hauling Chapman up behind them. They laid the industrialist out on his back, and Henri leaned over him to check that he was still breathing. Litefoot collapsed back into the mud, the rain pounding his face. Stars were dancing before his eyes, and in the distance, out in the river, he could see the outline of the airship, drifting with the current and blown about by the wind. He heard the sound of hurried footsteps behind him.

"My God, Litefoot!" Madsen had little else to say. "Here, Miss Jago, take my coat." Litefoot heard her accept the garment gratefully. He looked up. Madsen was standing over him, his face partly obscured by the drizzly veil of precipitation.

Litefoot smiled through the pain. "I think I could do with seeing a doctor." He collapsed to his knees.

Everything went black.

_Scotland Yard, one day later_

"So tell me, what of Joseph Chapman?" Litefoot nursed a cup of steaming tea between his still bandaged hands.

Madsen took a swig of his tea, shuddering as it sent tickling fingers of warmth into his belly. He looked grave. "Chapman's for the noose, and he knows it. His crimes were some of the most severe and inhumane I've yet encountered in my career, and in this city, that's certainly saying something. What galls me, though, is the man's consistently pompous attitude. He sits there during his interviews gloating about his crimes, about how clever he was to outwit us for so long.

Henri shuddered, "The man is a monster."

Madsen struck a match, lit his cigarette with it and tossed the dead match onto the workbench with a brief glance over his shoulder. He puffed to kindle the flames before replying. "They often are. They often are."

"Shame about Villiers, though. He was an entirely singular man."

Madsen pulled a face, "For the life of me, I can not understand where you developed such profound respect for the man."

Litefoot closed his eyes. When he opened them again he was studying the floor. Madsen wondered whether he was avoiding meeting his gaze. "It is… complicated. Villiers was an evil man, true enough, but he was also incredibly accomplished. In fact, I would go as far as saying he was a genius, in his own way. And with genius comes a certain amorality that is sometimes difficult to judge. Genius is, in many ways, akin to madness. Both states of mind demand a disconnection from reality, from the real, physical world, an ability to lose oneself in thought." He shrugged and grimaced, the Fixer's ministrations still taking their toll. "There is no contesting the fact that Villiers' crimes were of the most appalling variety, but I only wonder what may have come about if his genius could have been harnessed for the good of the Empire, instead of being misapplied in such a terrible way…" He trailed off, lost in thought.

Madsen withdrew his cigarette. "Good riddance to him; Chapman did us a favour when he removed him from proceedings." He paused. "Still, it's good to a case through to its resolution, isn't it?"

"Not quite." Henri patted the case at her feet. "We still have to take these to Havelock and retrieve our fathers. Most fortuitous that the left luggage office was open when you returned Mister Madsen."

"Quite." Madsen flicked the ash from his cigarette, "And the best of British to you both."

17. The Reckoning

_16.15 Paddington to Reading Express_

Litefoot read a newspaper intently as Henri watched the London change to the countryside speeding by below. "I do not think I shall ever get used to these pneumatic trains." She said to herself, "Too quiet for one thing."

"What was that?" Litefoot looked up, "I am sorry Miss Jago, I was… engrossed."

"Sorry Doctor Litefoot, I was merely talking to myself. I said; I do not think I will ever get used to how much quieter these trains are than steam."

"Cleaner too, smoother ride…" A voice spoke from the seats opposite. "The Brunel K-50 _Indomitable_ is a fantastic carriage."

Henri looked across at the owlish gentleman opposite; clearly he was very excited by this journey. He clapped his hands together as though a child. "Y' know I've never been on this one before, NFSE-4032, must make a note." He pulled out a thin, well-thumbed book tied with brown cord and scribbled something down using a very worn-down pencil, "Most exciting." Henri must have looked blank, "This carriage, its serial number – NFSE-4032," the gentleman pointed with the pencil to a sequence of letters and numbers raised in the ironwork rib-work on the carriage's interior. "I've never been in this carriage before in all the time I travel this route."

Henri suddenly felt very uncomfortable and embarrassed, "I'm very happy for you."

The gentleman tipped his head, "Thank you." He looked out of the window and checked his pocket watch, "This is my stop and we are actually two-and-one-half minutes late! The Company shall hear of this." He gathered up his belongings, "Good day to you both." He tipped his head once more and left.

Henri shook her head slightly, when the gentleman was out of earshot. "My God, those people actually exist? I thought 'train-spotters' were a myth – like the Loch Ness monster."

"She's a plesiosaurus – Skarasen actually."

"What?" Henri looked around. "Miss Khorsandi?"

The Persian agent turned from the seat she occupies behind Henri, "Well met fellow traveller!" She thought for a moment, "Or something like that, 'traveller_s_' as there are two of you…" she trailed off, "Mind if I join you?" the train hissed as it pulled away.

"Please," Henri slid in the seat to move over to opposite Litefoot, "Sorry was that your foot?"

"Yes. Never mind," Litefoot grimaced slightly. He nodded to Khorsandi, "Miss Khorsandi, forgive me for not standing but…"

"Henri has just crippled you?" Khorsandi smiled, "I understand completely Doctor, these carriage tables offer little in the way of legroom." She wriggled in the seat, "Especially when one is wearing a bustle. Do you not agree Henri?"

Henri nodded. "Very true, this is fortuitous Miss Khorsandi."

"Anousheh please," the Persian woman smiled as she reached into a brown travelling bag. "Fortune had little to do with it, though. I wanted you to read this, thought it might be of interest." She withdrew a file and hands it to Litefoot. "This is the autopsy of de Salem's mummy."

Litefoot raised an eyebrow in query, "An autopsy of a mummy?" He took the proffered document and began to read through as Henri and the Persian agent chatted.

"So what was that about the Loch Ness Monster?"

"Just that she does exist – several independent eyewitnesses corroborate the story and provide such similar details as to provide a fairly accurate profile."

Their words were lost to Litefoot as he read with increasing concentration. After a while he looked up, "Is this accurate?" Khorsandi nodded, "So why _was _an autopsycarried out on a mummy?"

Khorsandi pointed to the file, "You can see there were – discrepancies with the 'Khemosiri' body. Lord de Salem arranged for the autopsy the evening of the unwrapping."

Henri looked between the two, "Sorry you have lost me, what 'discrepancies'?"

Khorsandi turned to face Henri, "The de Salem mummy showed signs of healing _after_ being sealed inside his sarcophagus. We already knew he was mummified alive," Henri turned grey, "But this indicates he remained alive _after_ being mummified against all precedent." Henri turned even greyer.

Litefoot tapped the table, thinking, "Maybe he was subject to the radiations of the altar…"

Khorsandi offered a half-laugh. "Khemosiri was the leader of the cult and the one who supplied the altar. It is entirely probable that he did use it – and those radiations were entrenched throughout his body."

Litefoot tapped the file, "But that does not explain this. This," he shook his head, "contravenes everything in Gray's Anatomy. According to this, Mortimus, or 'Khemosiri' as de Salem called him, possessed a respiratory bypass system and a dual cardiovascular system – two hearts." Litefoot flicked to a page in the report and began to summarise aloud. "There was also evidence of a symbiotic self-renewing cell structure – so the body _could_ at least attempt to heal after the mummification process, and probably at every other time." He looked up at the two women opposite, "Of course the _standard_ human has some degree of cell renewal, but this far surpasses that ability. The Mortimus brain, or what was left of it, is much more complex than that of any previously depicted, not to mention larger, with an additional lobe," Litefoot looked thoughtful for a moment, "possibly dedicated to mechanical and other bodily functions, freeing up the other lobes for intellectual endeavours." He continued to read the document aloud almost oblivious to the looks from the women. "This nerve cluster of major ganglion along their left collar bone beneath the left clavicle could allow complete control over his metabolism. The skeletal structure is practically identical to human skeletal structure, with the exception of two additional ribs. The examination also showed that instead of large lungs, Mortimus had a series of pulmonary tubes parallel to the lymphatic system – possibly due to the twin hearts." Litefoot paused, "This could make him positively buoyant, allowing him to swim with great ease. Now this is interesting," he failed to register the look on Henri's face to suggest otherwise, "Mortimus had one liver but there is evidence of multiple stomachs that might have allowed for certain detoxification procedures."

Henri blinked, "But what does that all mean? Was this Mortimus some malform?"

Litefoot shook his head, "A mutation to physical environment? Unlikely, if he were, then there would be some genetic evidence of similar traits throughout the human record." Litefoot looked thoughtful and began to wonder. "Maybe… the altar only worked on Mortimus because of these – differences?"

Khorsandi nodded, "It is possible, but then Lord de Salem was subject to its effects some seven hundred years ago, and granted 'life immortal' of sorts. At first he seemed never to age, but he did very slowly, at the rate of one year in every half-century or so. But about a decade ago, this had increased to five years aging for every three passed. That was when he approached the Persian government for permission to carry out an expedition, and it was then that he came to my attentions." Khorsandi took a deep breath. "Researches showed that the altar he sought was in the collection of Havelock but the Scarab had not been catalogued. He believed that if he found Khemosiri – or Mortimus, he could extract the abilities directly from his remains."

Henri steepled her fingers, "So de Salem knew the story of Mortimus?"

"Maybe not," Litefoot shook his head, "At the unwrapping, he seemed genuinely shocked as to the condition of the corpse. What do we know of the altar; how did – does it function?"

Khorsandi pulled out a sheet of paper, "This is taken directly from a tablet found in the temple where the expedition found Mortimus. According to this, to operate the altar, one need only to lie down inside the coffin-like enclosure and allow the doors to close automatically. Then the healing commences. Normally, the doors open again once the healing cycle is complete. The time required for a healing cycle appears to depend on the situation, but even severe or fatal injuries are healed in minutes. From the records, if the doors are prevented from opening, the being inside will remain alive, without aging, for an indefinite period. However, these experiments revealed side effects that render it unfit for common use by humans: repeated use causes addiction, compromised thought processes, and, ultimately, insanity. Further, while an altar is designed to boost health and longevity, heal or revive someone terminally injured, the device can not animate non-living cellular matter." She paused, "There is nothing to as _how_ it functions, just what it does."

Litefoot shook his head, "But Havelock is necrotising; his cells are utterly dead. Surely he must know that the altar will not work."

Khorsandi shrugged, "Maybe he is ignorant of that caveat."

Henri shuddered, "What a horrid thing; to prolong one's life like that…"

Litefoot looked at the documents, "But the healing capabilities could be a great boon." It is as he says those words he realised he was practically echoing Dixon's explanation of Havelock's motives. "What does this mean? This hieroglyph sequence seems to be repeated time-and-time again?"

Khorsandi looked at the indicated pictograms, "It is either 'my cousin is a cat of strange parentage' or 'your power becomes us'. The dialect, termed _lingua praestantiua_ sometime in the ninth-century BC by Taalis Ulthran of Syracuse himself, is a distillation of the arcane tongues, incantations and procedures of this long forgotten and unnamed race. Quite what the significance of that is…" Khorsandi looked out of the window of the carriage and the tube beyond. "It looks as though we are about to arrive in Reading." She leant in and whispered in conspiratorial tones, "Before I leave you, I must insist, Havelock _must not_ have the jade scarab. We have not had time to reproduce the amber scarab. I urge you, please."

Litefoot lifted the Gladstone bag off the seat beside him. "Miss Khorsandi," He flushed, "We have envisaged just that. The true jade is with Madsen, back in London. We have the _faux _one you provided."

Henri nodded in agreement, "Sir Charles knows we are coming, hopefully he will keep his side of our bargain."

"Then all I can say; May God go with you," She dipped her head with a slight prayer, "in all the dark places you must walk."

Henri and Litefoot dipped their heads as Henri replied, "And with you."

The train rapidly approached Reading – their destination – and the pair of friends got up to disembark. Litefoot tipped his hat. "Good evening Miss Khorsandi."

"Good evening Doctor, Henri. All my wishes go with you." The Persian woman smiles at her colleagues.

_Reading_

As the train hissed to a halt, a light smattering of rain formed rivers on the outside of the pneumatic tube. Litefoot and Henri headed to the carriage doors. The vulcanised rubber seals swayed slightly as they alighted and soon they were on one of several elevated platforms, suspended by wrought ironwork above the ground tracks now larger given over to freight transport.

"Come on," Henri stepped along the platform, "this way." She led the way down from the platform as a passing freight train puffed by ejecting clouds of steam temporarily obscuring the platform.

As they passed along the platform, they walked by a small gathering all dressed in similar clothing, trying to emulate 'The Workers' oblivious to the notion that they were only there at that time because they were of sufficient means not to work. The pair caught a snippet of the conversation.

"…Look at this lot! After the revolution they will travel Third Class like us!" The speaker shook his fist at some imagined foe.

An older member of the grouping placed a hand on his comrade's arm. "No Brother, you have not heeded the words of McNally. After the Revolution _we_ will all travel First Class!"

Litefoot muttered under his breath, "Levellers!"

Henri nodded. "Father says that regardless of ideals, all power corrupts."

Litefoot sighed, "It looks like our escort is here." He indicated a woman standing at the bottom of the steps, dressed in a black, military-cut jacket and ankle-length skirt and wearing a black chauffer-style cap. Her hands are clasped behind her back as though on a parade ground.

"How can you know?"

"That is Fräulein Dixon – some employee or other of Havelock."

Henri smiled as she linked her arm through Litefoot's "At least we have saved money on a carriage!"

Litefoot and Henri descended the stairs to be greeted by the Teutonic woman. Dixon bowed her head slightly, "Doktor Litefűt, Fräulein Jago, if you will come this way." She escorted them to a large, dark-coloured car with blacked-out rear windows. She beckoned the pair inside and closed the door behind them. The rear door locked fast, Henri felt for a handle, but the panel was smooth and featureless.

Once the door was closed, Litefoot and Henri find they are in almost pitch blackness, they could barely make out each other. "I suppose it is better than being drugged," Litefoot muttered.

For several minutes, they were driven along in this state, completely unaware of where they are travelling. They know of their destination, but remain ignorant of direction. Then after what seems an eternity, the car halted and the front doors opened. The rear door unlocked and opened from outside by Dixon and they were ushered out of the vehicle. Dixon stepped aside as the pair blinked in the relatively bright evening light before steering them towards the open front doors of Havelock Hall.

Once inside the Hall, the doors closed, Henri clutched the bag containing the Scarab balls tightly as Dixon marched off into the dim recesses of the entrance hall. Finding they had been alone, Henri looked to Litefoot for some form of reassurance. He looked worried and Henri moved her hand to take his. Suddenly there was a hissing and clanking as Havelock arrived escorted by two orderlies.

"Ah - good - of - you to - return," he swung the chair to turn his malignant gaze upon Henri, "you - must - be - Miss - Jago." Even in his near-cadaverous state, Henri felt him leering at her and she moved the bag to obscure her body. "Is - the - Scarab - in there?" His voice became excited. "Give - it - here."

Henri clutched the bag even tighter. "Not until you relinquish our fathers."

"I - will - after - you - give - me - the - scarab!" The self-induced excitement caused him to degenerate into a spluttering, hacking coughing fit.

An orderly rushed forwards to inject a syringe of thick pink fluid directly into Havelock's neck. He looked up at Henri. "Please, he has very little time left."

Henri and Litefoot exchanged a look, torn between capitulating to the industrialist by giving up their only method of bargaining and their humane feelings of wanting to help. Reluctantly Henri passed the bag towards the orderly. He snatched it and handed it to the other orderly who opened it allowing Havelock to look inside.

"What - is - this?"

Henri cleared her throat, "The jade one controls the altar, the other supplies power." Henri clasped her hands together, "You need both to use the altar."

Havelock's orderly took the bag away and Havelock wheeled around, heading away from the pair. He paused by Dixon and muttered something to her before retreating deeper into his home. Dixon approached Henri and Litefoot, "If you will come withme, Sir Charles wants you to witness his Rebirth."

As she led the pair away, Dixon looked to Litefoot, "Doktor, I have given thought to what we talked of four days ago." She shook her head, "I still think that everyone should be equal with leaders fairly and equally elected, but you are right. Things are unlikely to alter quickly _unt _easily. Not within our lifetime."

Litefoot coughed lightly, "What bought about this change of heart?"

"Back in the Black Forest I was gamekeeper for Sir Charles. When he sold estates to Kaiser, well he bought me here," Dixon shrugged, "promising things would be different but…"

Henri looked to the other woman, "Nothing changed?"

"One wrong can move a people and a wronged people can move the world – you and I have both been wronged by Havelock and you have the power to change the world. I found out Sir Charles has escape tunnels. Never trust any leader who puts more faith in tunnels, bunkers _unt_ escape routes. Chances are their heart really is not in the endeavour." She laughed, "Though _vater_ would have said with your typical Britisher humour 'it is just a case of getting down the tunnel before them'!" She cleared her throat. "Either way…"

_Altar Room_

The dark panelled room was dominated by a large golden altar, intricately carved with hieroglyphs and measuring some ten feet in length, three feet in height and the same in width, with two circular sections at either end. Around the altar on the floor, someone has inscribed an intricate circle festooned with symbols and devices of an occult nature and surrounded this with several browning tallow candles. Against the wall at regular intervals are stood half-a-dozen Reivers, all staring directly ahead into the centre of the room.

Dixon stood watching guard over Henri and Litefoot as Havelock wheeled into the room ahead of another figure garbed as a priest and a pair of Reivers each holding one of the Scarab balls. Henri took a deep breath and clasped Litefoot's hand. He clasped Henri's hand back. The priest took up a position at the head of the altar as the ball-bearing Reivers adopted their assigned positions.

"The people of the Old World knew of _magic_. They needed it. We do _not_. Ours is the magic created by _technology_, magic _we_ know, we can define and document to the innermost levels of creation." The priest took the jade scarab off the Reiver and slotted it into the requisite receptacle not allowing necessity to impede ceremony. The carvings on the top of the altar began to glow with a hazy, white light. "If every child were to be trained to understand the basic rules of science; if every child knew how to use machines, there would be no problem or challenge that could not be conquered using _science_ and a little hard work. Discoveries enable us to conquer disease and repair impossibly damaging injuries. We can all but eradicate the normal process of aging. We could even conquer death itself…"

The priest took the amber Scarab off the second Reiver and placed it in the second recess on the altar. There was a rumble from within the altar and the top of the altar opened forming the lid into a "V" shape. From within the altar, a white glow bathed the room, and lights the ceiling. A litter rose from inside. "With this altar, we _can _conquer death!" The priest lowered his head and began to incant.

Havelock hissed, "Michael - talks - of - science - then - incants - rituals - to - the - 'machine - spirit'." The industrialist sneered and dismissed the ritual as superstition and rubbish even though he was expectant and reliant upon the technology. He turned to Henri. "You - know - if - this - does - not - work, I - may - take - your body. It - might - be - fun - t' - be - a - girly! The - doctors - say - brain - transferral - is - possible." He leered.

Litefoot snapped, "No! Take mine!"

Havelock gave a spluttering laugh, "Why? You're - a - cripple." He beckoned one of the Reivers over and ordered it to stand guard over the trio. He looked to his female employee. "Fräulein - Dixon - you - are - fired - without - references. If - you - plot - sedition," He flicked a toggle on his chair and a recording of Dixon telling Litefoot and Henri about the tunnels was played back. "It - is - wise - to - do - it - out - of - earshot."

Two of Reivers lifted Havelock from his chair with creaks and pops of tubing pulling out of flesh. Havelock guttered and gasped with the removal from his life support chair. They laid him gently onto the litter. Michael incanted more words as the litter receded from view and the top of the altar closed.

Then nothing, Michael watched the altar with great reverence as the Reivers held Litefoot and Henri prisoner along with Dixon.

A few minutes later, the lid parted with the smooth hiss of hydraulics. Michael ushered two of the Reivers forward to aid Havelock out of the altar. Henri, Litefoot and Dixon remained under the inhuman guard of two of Havelock's beasts.

A hand emerged from inside the altar, followed by a muscular arm and then a torso and head with fully, bushy hair. The skin and flesh of the face and torso have the flush and tone of health once more, his hair now dark and bushy. A deep and booming voice erupted, "That is _SO_ much better!" Havelock had become the public persona he once was. He moved to step from the altar. Henri and Dixon looked away from his nakedness as Litefoot looked to the floor. One of the Reivers stepped forward with a robe. Havelock tied the belt around his now fuller waist as he moved over to Henri. "So pretty," he cupped her chin in his hand, "So soft…" He sighed, "It has been so long." He moved in to kiss her on the lips. Henri tried to twist away. "Well… you're a fiery one… the night is _YOUNG!_"

Litefoot interrupted, "So what of our fathers? We kept our word and supplied you with the Scarab." Litefoot tried to move between Henri and Havelock, "Where are our fathers?"

Havelock's hand dropped from fondling Henri's chin and he pouted, "Haven't the foggiest; never had anything to do with their disappearances, just a good opportunity to get what I wanted from you."

Dixon leapt forward, "You are just a predator!" She attempted to strike her former employer but he backhanded her across the room. The Reivers hissed as one and moved toward defending their master.

"Time is _the_ predator stalking us our entire lives. Nothing escapes. Now your time is up!" Havelock beckoned the Reivers to advance on Dixon.

Dixon pulled her pistol from her waist holster and fired shots directly at Havelock's chest. He sank to his knees but remained otherwise upright. It is then they notice a low rumbling sound. Havelock's eyes defocused and his corpse fell backwards to lie on the floor in a crumpled heap, blood pooling under his body.

Instinctively, everyone looked to the altar. The _faux_ jade ball was glowing from within with an intense fire. As they watched, the ball exploded, overloading the device and triggering a release of radiations from within the altar by brilliant white light. Litefoot felt his wounds healing, the bruises fading and grazes knitting together. Henri likewise felt the muscular aches and strains fade, the abrasions heal and although she was by no means overweight, she felt more toned and tauter. Dixon wiped the trickle of blood from her mouth and ran her tongue over the teeth chipped when Havelock struck her. They are no longer chipped. She raised the pistol again to shoot down the Reivers, but the altar blasts the room with more blinding, white light. The Reivers collapse, the organic parts of their bodies rejecting the mechanical. Michael the priest stumbled into the candles and caught alight. He ran screaming from the room as flames quickly take hold. Dixon scrabbled for Litefoot who reached for Henri.

Dixon led them to the corridor and out of the burning house, via one of the escape tunnels "This way!" Outside they paused to watch the flames consume the upper storey of the hall.

Minutes later a fire engine arrived accompanied by a large van and a car from which two familiar figures emerged. "Mister Madsen! Miss Khorsandi!" Firemen tackled the blaze as Henri greeted their friends, "However did you know to come?"

Madsen looked at Henri, "D' you really think we'd let you come to the lion's den without support?"

Khorsandi nodded to Dixon, "Gnade there is on our side. It was only after you were here that she found out Havelock did not have your fathers – I am so sorry – and telephoned us. We arranged for an extraction team as quickly as possible." Khorsandi looked to the two civilians, "Besides, do you really think that we'd let a foreign agent to roam England in the manner I was?"

"Crikey!" The upper walls of the Hall collapsed inwards as the supporting beams burned away. The Division Q firemen doubled their efforts under the auspices of Madsen. "I think we were lucky to get out Eddie." Henri smiled sadly.

Litefoot turned to Henri, it was the first time she has used that diminutive form of his name – in fact she was only the second person after Elizabeth Windburn to use it. He smiled back at her, "We are no closer to finding our fathers, but at least you – we are fine." He took her hands in his. "I am sorry I have let you down."

Henri shook her head, "You?" she tried not to laugh, "You have not 'let me down', no man I know would do what you have done this past week for a valued _friend_ let alone someone he only met that day. I am sorry for taking you for granted." Henri smiled at the nervous doctor. "I assume we _are_ friends?"

"Of c- course, Miss Jago," Edison smiled through his strong embarrassment, "If you will have me as a friend." Henri smiled and nodded, giving him a slight hug. Litefoot whispered, "Thank you."

After they had been escorted safely away, one of the firemen marched up to Madsen and saluted "That's enough of that. Firemen _don't_ salute policemen."

"Sorry Sergeant Major. We have recovered the items."

Madsen smiled, "Excellent. Carry on Sergeant." The Fireman saluted again without thinking and turned on his heel before returning to his men.

_Scotland Yard, Chief Inspector Lomax's Office, the Next Day_

Madsen, Henri and Edison were seated in Chief Inspector Lomax's office illuminated by the sun pouring in through a window giving a sparkling view of London on this fogless day. Everything in the office was neat and clean and regular, including the three arrayed around the office. Sergeant Grey sat at the side desk with a case file open in front of him, Chief Inspector Lomax stood at the window, half watching the room and half watching the bustling in the Greatest City of the Empire. The third is half-hidden even in the bright office as he hangs back, smiling and genial, his features obscured by the glare of the window yet a thin trail of cigar smoke is seen and smelt. He remains silent yet gives the sense that the others defer to him in the matter at hand. He is the essence of all that is Byzantine and inscrutable in the Metropolitan Police and possibly government.

Madsen and Edison were clearly dissatisfied with the way the meeting has gone. Henri, on the other hand, was relatively happy and eager to get out of there. Grey's manner remained irritatingly cheery.

Lomax tapped the window frame with his pipe, "So Havelock had nothing to do with the disappearances?"

Madsen shook his head, "Apparently not, no sir."

"Then what of the automaton attack?"

"Well sir," Madsen looked to Litefoot, "When Doctor Litefoot questioned Chapman and Villiers about the crash of the _Lady Charlotte _they panicked and thought someone had uncovered the truth behind their automata pilots. It was merely the coincidental fact their vessel had been employed for carrying the Scarab that they had any involvement in the case. Apart from the fact their vessel was being used to carry a rejuvenation power."

Lomax filled his pipe with tobacco, "You have done your country and the Empire a great service. We trust you found the settlement satisfactory?"

"Quite," Henri looked to her hands, "if only we had found our fathers."

"Good, good," Grey glanced around at the others, "Then that about does it."

Madsen leant forwards, "What of the remains of the altar?"

Grey's glance flicked over to the mysterious man, then back to Madsen: "I thought we answered that. It is someplace very safe-"

Madsen became heated. "Research should be done-"

"Oh, it will be, Madsen, I assure you." Lomax lit his pipe. "We have top men working on it right now."

Madsen's eyes narrowed, "Who?"

"Top," The mysterious man spoke for the first time, placing great emphasis on the words, "Men."

Madsen exchanged a look with Litefoot, "We may be able to help."

"We expected no less and appreciate that." Grey smiled, "We would not hesitate to call on you."

Lomax dismissed them with a curt "Thank you all. Thank you again."

Madsen looked them over coldly. He turned his chair away and powered away, sullen, even though they are his superiors in Division Q, he felt betrayed and disgusted.

Minutes later Madsen, Litefoot and Henri emerged from the building. Madsen looked to them. "I can but apologise for that." He reached into a pocket of his jacket and pulled out two small black-covered cards. "I was going to give you these," he handed them over and Henri opened one to reveal a warrant card bearing the crest of Division Q, "But I wonder if you would be better served by remaining freelance – 'dabbling amateurs' if you like, rather than being tied officially?"

Henri looked to Litefoot and could see his response. She handed the cards back to Madsen who takes them and nodded, "Thank you for the offer Mister Madsen, but we have to decline."

"I understand fully." Madsen turned around, "But do not think that this means the end of our acquaintance." He smiled warmly at the pair, bade them farewell and hissed off in his steam chair towards his car.

Henri clung to Litefoot's arm in an energetic, very feminine way, scolding him. "They will not tell you, so why not just forget it. I would think you would have had enough of that darned Scarab – I have. Just put your mind on something else."

Litefoot stopped, looking across the Thames, his mind occupied. "Like what?"

Henri made a face, "How about finding our fathers?" She put her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his cheek, "How about our next adventure?"

"You mean you would go though all this again?"

"Well we must if we are to find our fathers…" They moved down the steps, arms linked. "You know Doctor Litefoot, Havelock said that 'time is a predator, hunting us all our lives'."

Litefoot nodded, "Yes, I _was_ there."

Henri smiled, "I would rather believe that Time is a companion who goes with us on the journey who reminds us to cherish every moment because they'll never come again. What we leave behind is not as important as how we live it. After all, we are only mortal."

The friends walked off into the London dusk, wondering what the future would bring them.

_Secret Government Warehouse_

The pair of Scarab balls sat in a wooden crate, nestling in wood shavings. More shavings were deposited on top of them before a wooden lid was bought down and solidly nailed to the crate. It displayed displaying the stencilled message on top:

Utmost Secret

H.M. Gov. C.I.G. #1701-a/b

Do Not Open!

The hammering was completed and hands shifted the heavy crate onto a steam dolly upon which was already a crate larger than a coffin, bearing a stencil identical bar the A or B. An aged warehouseman began pushing the dolly down an aisle formed by huge stacks of such crates. These were in many shapes and sizes, but they all shared one important feature; they all look like the one that held the Scarab balls and the larger chest. All have similar markings. Quite quickly, it would be apparent to an observer that this was one of the biggest rooms in the world – larger than the atmotic manufactories of _Chapman & Villiers Air Transportation_, larger than most cathedrals. And it is full; crates and crates, all looking alike, all gathering dust.

Soon afterwards, the warehouseman, pushing his new crate ahead of him, had turned into another aisle and disappeared from view.


End file.
